


School's Out

by AlElizabeth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Emotional Manipulation, Family, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlElizabeth/pseuds/AlElizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Teen!Chester. Sam gets accepted to Stanford and tells John the good news. His father though, is less than pleased, and seeks the help of an outsider to show Sam that he should be hunting and not going to college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Sam didn't even dare to breathe as he stared down at the envelope in his hands. He knew exactly what was inside… a letter from Stanford University.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, the eighteen-year old tore open the creamy white envelop, his eyes prickling with tears as he gazed at the red crest for the school at the top of the thrice-folded letter, gathering the strength to let his eyes travel down the page and find out if he would be admitted or not.

"Dear Samuel," the young man read in a whisper, his heart hammering in his chest, "I take great pleasure in offering you admission to Stanford University's Class of 2005…"

The letter began to shake, Sam's hands trembling. He didn't even finish reading.

He was in. He couldn't believe it. He had hoped and prayed… but always harboured a shred of doubt that he wouldn't be good enough. Now all that insecurity was blown away by one single piece of paper.

He could finally get away. Leave this life of hunting and killing monsters. No longer would he have to worry about dying every other day. He could finally have that normal life he'd always dreamed about.

"Sammy?"

The young man's head snapped up and he hurriedly shoved the letter from Stanford behind his back as his older brother stepped into the motel room.

"Yeah, Dean?" he asked, trying not to look like he'd been caught doing something illegal.

"Dad just called," his brother said, standing in the doorway, "He wanted to know if you'd finished the research on that Amarok yet."

Sam nodded and reached towards his backpack, pulling out a stack of papers from inside, "Yeah, I have it all here."

"Great," Dean said and grabbed the papers, "He wants to take this thing out tonight."

Sam let out a sigh of relief as his brother turned away but then stiffened as Dean turned around and peered suspiciously at him.

"You alright?" the twenty-two year old asked, "You're face is kind of pale."

"Oh… uh…" Sam stammered, "I've got a bit of a headache."

Dean nodded, "You should lie down for a while before we go out, Dad's gonna need both of us for this hunt."

"Sure," Sam replied distractedly and watched nervously as his brother exited the room.

Sighing, Sam fell back against the bed, closing his eyes.

W

"Dad?" Sam asked as John parked the Impala right beside his large black truck, turning in the driver's seat to look tiredly at his youngest son.

"Can I talk to you?" Sam asked quietly, ignoring the look Dean gave him before climbing out of the shotgun position and heading towards the motel room.

"Can't it wait until morning, Sam?" his father asked, "I'm tired and-"

"NO!" Sam cried, then sat back, embarrassed that he'd let his nerves get the better of him, "I mean, it's really important… and it won't take long."

John sighed and opened the Chevy's door, "Fine."

Sam scrambled out of the car and followed his father inside. He had wanted to talk to his Dad in private, tell Dean the news after he had found out how John would take it, but now it couldn't be helped. Dean flopped down on his bed; his eyes were closed but he was certainly going to be listening in to the entire conversation between his brother and father.

Sam stood in the middle of the room, unsure of where to position himself. John shrugged out of his jacket, laying the garment across the scratched wooden table that stood in front of the window and turned to his youngest, waiting somewhat impatiently for the news that was so important that it couldn't be held off for a few hours.

"So?" John asked, one black eyebrow rose in expectation, "What is it?"

"Well, uh… um…" Sam hesitated and closed his eyes, knowing his Dad wasn't going to like his stammering, "I finish high school in June and I kind of… applied to some colleges."

Sam looked at his father and saw John was frowning.

"I got a letter back today from one of them," the eighteen-year old continued, knowing there was no going back now, "And I was accepted. I got into Stanford… on a full scholarship so I don't even have to pay tuition or anything as long as I keep my gra-"

"No," John said simply and Sam gaped at his father, mouth open in shock.

"But… you don't even have to pay-" Sam tried again but John shook his head, "I said no. You're not going. I need you here, Sam. Dean and I both need you here."

Sam stared in disbelief at his father.

"But-" the eighteen-year old began but his father held a hand up, "You are not going to college and that's final. It's not up for discussion."

Sam didn't know what to say. He felt anger boil up inside him and he clenched his hands into fists.

"You can't make me stay!" he shouted, "I'm going!"

John's face darkened and from the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean sit up abruptly, a concerned expression on his face.

"Hey, its late and we're all tired," the twenty-two year old said in an overly-friendly tone, "Why don't you two sleep on it and talk about this college thing in the morning?"

Dean reached out to put a hand on his father's shoulder but John pushed him away roughly.

"There will be no more talking about college," John hissed, pointing a finger at Sam, "You are not going and that is final."

Dean looked from his father to his brother, clearly concerned there was going to be bloodshed.

"You can't force me to stay!" Sam egged his father on- he couldn't' help it, he was just so angry John was denying him this without even listening to him- "What are you going to do? Lock me in the Impala's truck?"

"I'll do whatever I have to do to get these damn ideas out of your head," John hissed.

Sam stood still, stunned by his father's threat, not moving as John grabbed his jacket from the table and left the motel room, slamming the door after himself and starting up his big black truck, tearing out of the parking lot as though he had Hellhounds on his heels.

SPN

John stared at the label of his half-finished bottle of beer, feeling as shitty as he ever had.

He sighed and wiped a hand over his face. He shouldn't have said those things to Sam and he knew it… it was just… that kid knew how to press his buttons and damn it if he didn't let his hot temper get the better of him.

He knew he should probably head back to the motel soon, apologize to Sam and see if he still wanted to talk about college.

John still didn't want Sam to go but there was no harm in discussing it, was there? At least his son wouldn't think he was some uncaring tyrant like he had been earlier.

Raising the bottle to drain the last of the beer, John looked up, startled when a man slid into the booth across from him.

"Can I help you?" the hunter asked, eyeing the man warily.

The guy appeared to be older than John himself, his hair and beard mostly silver. He had light blue eyes and a face that had crow's feet around his eyes and laugh lines around his mouth, lightly tanned.

He was wearing a faded denim jacket, a grey t-shirt and blue jeans with heavy black army boots.

"I think I might be able to help you," the stranger said, "Flint's the name, Eli Flint."

The man held his hand out and John shook it, still confused and a bit wary.

"I'm sorry," Flint said, "I just saw your long face and wondered if there was anything I could do to cheer you up."

The man spoke jovially, as if he were in an exceptionally good mood and that set John on edge but he also felt himself relaxing.

"Wait," he said, "I've heard of you. You help hunters, don't you?"

Flint nodded, grinning, "That's absolutely correct. Now, let me know what I can do for you?"

John grunted, taking a drink of his beer before mumbling, "Can you convince my kid not to go to college?"

Eli Flint, somewhat famous among hunters, was known for being able to assist those who were feeling as though they couldn't continue, whether they were desirous of ending their lives or pursuing a less dangerous career path and leading them back into the fold. John had never met the man until now but the many stories circulating about Flint made him seem as though he was some sort of miracle-worker, able to turn it around for even the most depressed hunter, giving them a renewed purpose to continue killing monsters and saving innocent lives.

Flint grinned widely, showing off numerous white teeth, "I could just."

W

John drove back to the motel room, feeling much better then he had a few hours earlier.

He had a plan. With Eli Flint's help Sam would realize how college wasn't for him and that his true calling was hunting with his father and brother.

Flint had warned that it may take some time for Sam to be completely convinced that killing monsters was the right thing for him but John didn't mind, as long as his youngest was shown how foolish he had been and returned with a renewed vigor to hunt, the time it took wouldn't matter.

Eli wouldn't take Sam under his wing just yet though, he had suggested they wait until the eighteen-year old was ready to go to Stanford, that way Dean would be none the wiser to his brother's whereabouts. John was certain his eldest wouldn't approve of calling on outside help to assist Sam in transitioning back to being a full-time hunter.

John smiled as he parked his truck and saw the lights out in the motel room. Quietly, he crossed to the sidewalk and opened the door. In the dim light from the parking lot he saw both his sons sleeping on one bed, something they reluctantly did if money was tight and they couldn't afford two rooms. Closing the door with care, John slipped off his boots as he walked, sinking onto the lumpy mattress of the bed closest to the door and closed his eyes, falling quickly into a contented slumber.


	2. Chapter Two

Sam opened the Impala's door and stepped out, grabbing his duffel bag from the floor of the passenger's side as he did so. John exited the driver's side and walked around the front of the Chevy towards his youngest son.

"Thanks for the ride," Sam said, smiling.

John returned the gesture but it didn't meet his eyes.

"You sure you want to do this?" he asked, "There's still time to change your mind. We could go back to the motel room and forget about all of this."

Sam shook his head though. John nodded, knowing his son wasn't going to see things his way… well, not without a little help.

Sam hesitated for a moment before he reached out with both hands and hugged his father tightly.

"I'm not going away forever," he muttered, his face pressed against the shoulder of John's jacket.

The older hunter gripped his son tightly, "You'll be back before we know it."

Sam chuckled and broke away from the embrace, his expression suddenly sad.

"I wish Dean would have come," he told John. Dean had been the one so excited to hear that he wanted to go to college so it upset Sam slightly when he'd said he'd stay at the motel instead of going to the Greyhound station with them.

John shrugged, "I'm sure you'll hear from him soon."

Sam nodded and looked towards the big grey building with the Greyhound bus line logo above the doors.

"You'd better get in there," John said, "You don't want to be late."

Sam nodded and began walking towards the doors. Before entering the depot, he paused and looked back, "I'll call you when I get to California."

John nodded and waved a hand, watching his son disappear into the building. He walked around to the driver's side, opened the door and sat down, taking his cell phone out as he did so.

"Hey," he said as his eldest answered, "Just dropped Sam off. I'll be back soon."

John closed the driver's side door but didn't immediately pull out of the parking lot. He sat for a while, watching the doors, and thinking.

He was immensely grateful to Eli Flint for agreeing to help Sam, he didn't know what he would have done if he hadn't met the man, Sam was just so stubborn. John hoped Eli would be able to get through to him and help show him that he was needed as a hunter, that knowing what he knew about the things that were really out there made him selfish if he chose instead to go to some hoity-toity college.

John felt himself smiling, imagining being reunited with his youngest son again, Sam full of a renewed desire to hunt monsters and save innocent people.

Putting the Impala in drive, John pulled out of the parking lot and drove slowly back to the motel room, stopping once to watch a Greyhound bus as it drove past him on the road before continuing on.

SPN

Dean was so proud of his brother. He'd been just as surprised as John to find out that Sam had been accepted into one of the best colleges in the country; Dean though, hadn't been a dick about it.

After that initial argument while led to their father storming out of the motel room to go find a bar and get shit-faced, John seemed to have mellowed out.

Sam had been terrified of facing their father upon his return but it seemed that his younger brother's fear was all for naught. When they woke up the next morning- John had slipped back into the room while they were both asleep- he wanted to talk with Sam and seemed to have forgotten all about the shouting match they had had the night before.

Dean didn't know exactly what they said to each other- he left to go pick up breakfast so his father and brother could have some privacy- but Sam later told him that John was okay with him going away if it was what he truly wanted. Of course John wasn't happy about Sam's decision but he seemed to realize his youngest would be miserable if he didn't go to college. Dean also guessed that John was hoping Sam would get bored of it and come back in a few months.

The weeks leading up to Sam's departure were not strained exactly but tinged with anticipation. As school began to wrap up and the first day of July crept closer, that sense of excitement was so palpable Dean could have cut it with a knife. His brother talked non-stop about California and clearly couldn't wait to leave. Dean was happy for his brother but his throat tightened every time he thought about the fact that in a few short weeks Sam was not going to be with them anymore. It wasn't like his brother was leaving forever; Sam promised to call Dean as often as possible and that'd he'd come back for Thanksgiving and Christmas break too. Dean was glad his brother would be returning for the holidays, they just wouldn't be the same without Sam, he knew. Dean knew that it would take a little bit for him to get Sam's absence but he reminded himself that his brother was going to college, to make something of himself and he would be much happier in California than motel-hopping with them.

John seemed to realize that Sam was only focused on one thing: Stanford, and didn't try and push him into going on any hunts, asking only that he work on research. Dean was glad that their Dad wasn't forcing Sam to go with them on hunts, partly because he knew how much his brother disliked that part of the job and because he was certain something would happen with his sibling so distracted. John might not like the idea of Sam going to college but at least he appeared to accept that his youngest was going, no matter what he said. Dean secretly wondered if their Dad thought Sam would get tired of a normal, college student existence and come back to them.

Fat chance, Dean thought smugly; Sammy's stubborn, just like you, Dad.

W

The day Sam planned to head to California dawned bright and clear, a wonderful summer morning and not great for being cooped up in a bus for hours on end.

Dean felt more than a little bit emotional when he saw Sam packing his duffel bag after taking a shower. In just a few hours Sam would be on his way to college and Dean might not see him for a while.

John wasn't in the room. He had offered to go get breakfast so Dean and Sam were alone.

The older brother cleared his throat, drawing his sibling's attention to him.

"Sammy," Dean said thickly, cursing himself silently for getting all weepy, "You be careful, okay?"

Sam nodded, "What do you think's going to happen to me? I'm just going to school."

Dean shrugged, "You never know. You're a magnet for trouble."

Sam smiled, "I'll be okay."

Dean returned the gesture, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes, "I know you will."

SPN

Sam stared out the large window of the Greyhound, chin propped up on the heel of his hand as he idly watched storefronts zip by.

He shifted in the seat, slightly uncomfortable. The room available for his legs was far too small and his knees were pressed hard against the back of the chair in front of him. Glancing to his left, he saw that the teenage girl sitting beside him barely looked up from her cell phone as he fidgeted; she was too focused on texting to pay much attention to anything else.

Sam sighed and looked back out the window, wondering if he should call Dean or his Dad.

No, he'd only been on the bus for a couple of hours and if he called now his father might get the wrong impression and suggest he come back. Sam had promised to call once he arrived in California and that was exactly what he was going to do.

Deciding that he had nothing better to do, Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes, recalling from years of being on the road that time seemed to move faster when he was asleep.

The rhythmic rumble of the big bus's tires on the road and the quiet conversation of the other passengers around him soon lulled Sam into a deep sleep, the young man unaware that he would never arrive in California as he intended.


	3. Chapter Three

"John Winchester," the man with salt-and-pepper hair and dark eyes told Flint and Eli nodded.

"I guess I don't have to tell you my story," the father said and flagged down the waitress for another beer.

"You want anything?" John asked but Eli shook his head.

"So your son wants to go to college?" Eli asked, turning the conversation back to the previous topic.

"Yeah, Sam, my youngest, just got accepted to Stanford," John elaborated.

"Good school," Flint said truthfully, "One of the best."

John grimaced.

"I just don't understand it," he lamented, "Where did this come from? I mean, I got drafted into the army before I left high school and was in the war… Dean, my eldest, didn't graduate and neither of us are the worse for it."

John paused when the waitress returned with the drink. The father grunted his thanks and took a long swallow of the beer before continuing:

"Mary- my wife- died when Sam was just a baby… he doesn't even remember her. I'd think he'd be the one wanting to find her killer… more so than even Dean or I… but no, all he's ever talked about since September was applying to college… I couldn't talk him out of it… no matter what I said he wasn't going to listen to me… what do I know? I'm just his father…"

All the while John spoke, Eli nodded in sympathy.

"I've seen this before," he told John and the hunter looked at him curiously.

"You have?" John asked, surprised.

Flint nodded sagely, "A lot of the younger hunters just don't have the same drive, the same commitment to their work as their elders do. They're selfish, whether it's on purpose or not."

It was John's turn to nod, "Yeah… I know what you mean."

"You said you could help Sam?" the father asked and Eli smiled.

"Yes, I can," he told John sincerely, "But I can tell you right now that it probably won't be easy to convince him to continue hunt-"

John shook his head, "Do whatever you need to do to make him stay."

Eli leaned back against the booth, slightly surprised at John's dismissive attitude.

"Alright," Flint said, "But I have some rules that must be followed once Sam enters the program."

John took a drink of beer and leaned forward, listening intently.

"Once I get started, I cannot allow you to contact Sam in any way," Eli told John, "I will call you when I'm finished working with your son."

"Okay," the father said slowly, "What happens then?"

"We will arrange a meeting so that you can take Sam back," Eli continued.

"What if you can't help Sam?" the father asked.

Flint smiled, "My program has never failed, John."

"Anything else?" the father asked and Eli nodded.

"It would be in Sam's best interest," he began, "If you did not mention college again to your son or that he was ever accepted into Stanford."

Now John began to look very confused.

"Why?"

Eli leaned forward on his elbows, "It would only serve to upset him, I am sure, and you don't want to do that, do you? Just let him relax over the next couple of months and when he's ready to leave we'll make sure he ends up with me rather than at college."

John shook his head. The father clearly cared about his son and only wanted what was best for him, even if that meant taking the chance to go to college from his child, Eli saw that and empathized with the man.

If everything worked out, as it should though, Sam Winchester would be back with his family shortly, hunting monsters and saving innocent people as though he had been born to that very calling.

The talk then moved to the day and time Eli was to pick Sam up. He and John decided that it would be best not to tell Dean what was going to happen and that Eli would meet up with Sam on his way to California. The specific route and bus Sam would take could be sorted out later, closer to the young man's departure, but for now a rudimentary plan was put into place.

John stood up and shook Eli's hand vigorously, "Thank you so much, I really appreciate this and I am sure Sam will too."

"No need to thank me," Flint told him, "I am simply trying to help your son do his job."

The father nodded and reached for his wallet.

"Please," Eli said, holding a hand out to stop John, "Let me."

Taking a couple of bills from his own wallet, Flint set them on the table and turned, walking out of the bar, smiling.

W

Every five minutes or so Eli's eyes flicked upwards, towards the front of the bus where Sam Winchester was sitting, as though making sure the young man was still there.

Flint and John had spoken again a handful of times after their initial meeting in the bar the night Sam had received his acceptance letter, the father and Eli honing their plan down and John telling the man about his youngest son.

Eli looked down at his watch. The bus should be stopping in a couple of hours. Flint had no doubt that his plan would go off without a hitch and he'd soon be on his way to helping Sam Winchester realize that hunting was the only vocation for him.

SPN

Sam was jolted awake by the bus slowing suddenly.

Groggily, he peered out the window and saw that it was pulling into a rest area with a large parking lot that surrounded a low, square brown brick building advertising for McDonald's, Arby's and Dunkin' Donuts.

The Greyhound pulled into a parking spot and the driver opened the doors, with a tired, "Half an hour," warning spoken through the speaker system.

Sam waited for the mad rush of passengers to die down before he even attempted to stand up. It seemed as though everyone was in a hurry to get something to eat or take a crap in a bathroom that was bigger than a closet.

"Damn it," Sam muttered as he was forced to duck his head to avoid hitting the ceiling, unable to stand at full height, his knees protesting the sudden movement.

Reaching down and rubbing his aching legs, Sam slowly made his way out of the bus, limping slightly.

Once he was free of the confining Greyhound, the young man straightened and stretched, feeling his cramped muscles slowly unwind, glad for the short reprieve. Peering around, he saw that open field flanked the side of the rest area parking lot the bus was on, rickety wooden picnic tables arranged close to the asphalt for those who wanted to eat their fast-food meals outside. The far side of the parking lot, across from the three-in-one restaurant had large trees lining the edge of the pavement and, surprisingly fewer cars than the sunbaked side.

Sam glanced for a moment at the yellow and red McDonald's sign before deciding that he wasn't really hungry and chose instead to take a walk and try and ease his cramped leg muscles.

Sam walked slowly, relishing the chance to stretch his legs- he might not get another opportunity for a few hours once he returned to the bus- but quickly realized just how hot it was outside and why, despite the numerous vehicles, few people were taking advantage of the fresh air.

Waves of heat floated up from the black tarmac as the sun beat down from atop. Sam felt a bead of sweat trickle down his nose and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Looking up, he saw the trees across the parking lot, casting cool blue shade against the grass and pavement.

Taking long strides- wanting to get out of the sun but not keen on sitting in the crowded, loud, albeit air-conditioned restaurant- Sam started across the parking lot towards the shade trees.

The young man reached the far side of the rest area, nearing the parked cars lined up along the edge of the pavement. He saw that he was completely alone. No one else was outside and that suited Sam just fine. He could use some quiet to think.

"Sam?"

The young man, standing in between a red Nissan and an old silver Thunder Bird Dean would love, stopping when he heard someone call his name.

Frowning, Sam looked around; who was that? Maybe some hunter he knew? Caleb, maybe, or Joshua.

The young man only sensed the presence behind him too late. Sam tried to turn around when he felt something press against his shoulder blades- oh God, it felt like a gun, was it a gun- before he felt a sharp, hot pain and the parking lot dissolved into grey, slowly flooding to black as unconsciousness overtook him.

SPN

Eli caught Sam Winchester underneath the armpits before he could hit the pavement and slowly lowered him to the ground, pocketing the taser once the teen was on lying on the asphalt in front of his car's trunk.

Despite the large windows on the sides of the brown building, Eli wasn't concerned about being seen, these days people barely looked away from their phones long enough to drive their cars.

Moving quickly nevertheless, Flint unlocked his trunk before slipping two plastic zip ties from the pocket of his denim jacket and securing them around Sam's wrists and ankles, tightening them probably more than necessary. After all, the kid was a giant and Flint didn't want to take the chance that he might get loose. Grabbing Sam beneath the armpits once again, Flint heaved the young man up and shoved him bodily into his trunk. It was somewhat of a tight fit, Sam Winchester being tall and all arms and legs, but he managed to position the young man inside, happy to see that there was still some room left- he didn't like the idea of the teen being squished in the trunk- before he put his hand on the lid of the trunk, pausing to peer down at the unconscious young man.

Flint never really liked this part of the process; it always made them look at him as though he was evil, but it had to be done. None of them ever wanted to come willingly.

Sighing, Eli closed the trunk tightly, locking it and walked around to the driver's side of his car. He pulled out of the parking lot quickly and turned on the radio, jacking the volume when the Beatles' 'With A Little Help From My Friends' began playing.

SPN

Sam gasped, waking abruptly, and opened his eyes. Darkness pressed in against the young man and he cried out, confused and frightened.

Sam tried sit up, only to find he could barely move, his hands bound together tightly at the wrists, his ankles hobbled the same way so that he was lying on his side in the fetal position.

No, Sam thought; panic blossoming in his chest.

No, no, no, please, God this can't be happening… oh God what was happening?

Sam recalled the voice calling his name, the feeling of a gun- had it been a gun- against his back before everything had gone black.

Where was he?

Who had called his name?

The young man whimpered, terrified of the answers to his questions.

He squeezed his eyes shut as panic constricted his chest with iron bands.

This was wrong.

This was so very wrong.

He wanted out.

He needed out.

Sam opened his eyes, staring into nothing but darkness and began gasping for air, flailing and screaming to be let out, get me out, oh please I can't be in here

W

Sam stared into the darkness, eyes-half closed, his breathing rapid and shallow.

He was in the trunk of a car. He knew that now. Not that it made much of a difference. Whoever was driving was either ignoring him or couldn't hear him.

Sam sniffed; snot caked against his mouth and chin, his cheeks puffy and sore, eyes swollen from crying. His throat felt raw from screaming.

He felt shaky and weak, as though he was recovering from the flu. He was drained but he knew he'd need to fight when he came face-to-face with his kidnapper.

Just the thought of seeing the person who had done this to him made Sam's eyes burn with tears, his throat tighten with unvoiced sobs.

His knees were beginning to ache again from their cramped position- as were his arms- and he didn't think he'd be able to fight, much less run away.

"Please," Sam muttered, tasting salt on his lips, "Someone… Please help me…"

W

Sam stared straight ahead, praying and hoping that he could do it.

Inch by inch he moved his hands farther downward towards the pocket of his jacket where his cell phone was. If he could get his phone he could call his Dad or Dean or the police and get help.

Sam whimpered as his arms screaming in pain, the muscles aching fiercely from their confining position.

Slowly he managed to stick the fingers of his left hand into the pocket and he almost sobbed when he touched the cool plastic case of his phone.

If he could just reach it…

Sam froze. The car was slowing down.

The vehicle had done so before- for red lights- but this was different; he heard the distant crunch of gravel as though the driver were pulling over onto the shoulder of the road instead of in front of an intersection. The car stopped trembling beneath Sam as its engine was turned off and tears welled up in his eyes.

No, please no, he wasn't ready, not when he could almost reach his phone, reach help-

Sam was momentarily blinded when the trunk was opened and bright sunlight poured in. Whimpering and clenching his eyes closed, the young man slowly opened them, trying to see his captor's face, only to be met with an indistinct silhouette made by the sun shining over the figure's shoulder.

"What've you got there?" an oddly friendly voice asked and Sam flinched when he felt a rough, calloused hand shove his fingers away from his pocket and pull his cell phone out.

"Hm," the man said, "Forgot about this. It's alright, not your fault."

"Please," Sam said, his voice a rasp, "Don't-"

His captor slipped Sam's phone into the pocket of his own jacket and reached down causing the young man to flinch away.

The man grabbed Sam under the armpit and heaved him into a sitting position. The teen raised his arms to shield his eyes from the sun but before he could, his captor reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade.

"No-" Sam began, his heart pounding fearfully but the man only reached forward with the blade and sliced through the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles.

Sam stared at his kidnapper, still fearful but now confused.

"Get up," the man said brusquely and Sam slowly climbed from the T-Bird's trunk.

Before he could even think of running, the man reached out and grabbed a handful of Sam's hair at the back of his head, keeping the knife in the boy's line of sight and pushing him towards the right side of the car, the passenger's side.

Sam stumbled forward, nearly falling, as his legs protested the sudden movement. Reaching the front passenger's side, the teen's kidnapper opened the door and pushed him into the seat.

Sam stared at the man with watery eyes as the abductor reached inside and opened the glove compartment, revealing a half-dozen Kleenex packs, a roll of Mentos mints, a map of the United States… and a set of handcuffs.

The man grabbed the handcuffs and closed the glove compartment, before looping the chain between the silver shackles through the door's handle.

"Give me your wrists," Sam's kidnapper instructed and the young man cringed back, letting out a fearful whimper.

Leaving the cuffs to dangle form the door handle, the man pulled a small, black, stun gun from his jacket pocket. "Give me your wrists or I'll zap you again and stuff you back in the trunk."

Sam didn't want to go back into the trunk and shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes as he held his hands out, letting the man close the cold, metal cuffs around his wrists. His captor tugged on the chain with one hand before deciding that Sam wasn't going anywhere and closed the door, causing the young man to cry out in pain as his arms were shove back forcefully.

The teen watched the man warily as he walked around the back of the car, closing the trunk as he passed. Sam craned his neck as he struggled to follow his abductor's progress, the handcuffs forcing him to sit facing slightly to the right.

The man said nothing as he opened the driver's side door, sat down and started the car up again. The T-Bird began rolling forward slowly, accelerating quickly once it returned to the road.

Sam craned his neck to the left to try and get a decent look at the man who had kidnapped him.

He didn't look evil but Sam knew that was relative, even supernatural monsters sometimes appeared in guise of wolves to get closer to the sheep. The man appeared some years older than Sam's father, in his fifties or even early sixties, with grey hair and a neatly trimmed silver beard. His face was tanned and there were crow's feet at his pale blue eyes and laugh lines around his mouth. He was wearing a denim jacket, the shirt underneath a maroon button-up. Faded jeans and heavy-looking black army boots finished the ensemble.

The man glanced at Sam, noticing the teen's scrutiny and smiled.

"For a kid on his way to college you're pretty stupid."

Sam shuddered at the grin the man was giving him but didn't say anything, the guy was right. He shouldn't have tried to see who was calling his name out in that parking lot, no one he knew would hide and be all shifty about it anyway, if they wanted to talk to him. He should have known it was a bad idea.

But the man wasn't talking about, he continued, "You really thought your Daddy was just going to let you go 'play college' while people are dying?"

Sam stared wide-eyed at the man.

"How… do you know my Dad?"

The man's grin seemed to grow even wider- if that was possible- and he nodded, "Your father told me all about you, Sam."

The teen felt his heart skip a beat and he shook his head.

"Your family wants you to hunt," the man continued, "And I'm going to help you realize that it should be the only thing you do."

His family? Was Dean in on this too? Sam felt tears well up in his eyes. Dean had acted so happy for him, like he wanted him to go to California and get away from hunting. Was it all an act? If Dad had hired this man to kidnap Sam and then act like nothing was wrong then it made sense- awful sense- that Dean would be involved as well. Maybe they had both decided that he wasn't ever going to make it to college.

Looking up, Sam swallowed, glaring as fiercely as he could at the man, "You won't make me want to hunt. Ever."

His abductor shrugged, the smile never leaving his face.

"We'll see," he said, "I can be very persuasive."


	4. Chapter Four

Sam stared anxiously out the passenger's side window.

All he could think about was the fact that his family, his brother and father, had set this thing up… that they had never intended for him to go to college.

The feeling of betrayal made Sam's throat clench and his eyes sting with emotion.

Forcing those thoughts away, the eighteen-year old instead focused on the matter at hand.

They had been driving for hours and he had no idea whatsoever where he was. No cars had passed by since Sam's kidnapper had let him out of the trunk and that made the young man very anxious. At first they had driven past farmer's fields and open meadows but now trees were pressing in on either side of the road, the forest grown right up against the asphalt.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, catching sight of the man turning his head to look at him, and stopped moving.

The teen's heart skipped a beat as the T-Bird began to slow down and Sam could just make out a narrow dirt strip cut into the forest, nearly hidden among the dense trees, looking more like a deer-path than an actual road.

The man turned the classic car onto this path, the vehicle bumping up and down on the washboard dirt track, leaves smacking against the roof and sides.

Sam craned his neck to peer over his shoulder back to the way they had come and was alarmed to see that the trees completely blocked his view of the narrow road.

Cold, blue shadows swept over the T-Bird and Sam shivered involuntarily.

Ten minutes went by, the car continuing to trundle down the narrow dirt path that seemed as though it would never end, before it suddenly opened up onto a clearing where an old cabin sat.

The cabin was large and sprawling. It was made of wood logs that had been cut roughly and covered with paint that might have once been yellow but had paled in the sun to white, flaking in the elements. A narrow porch bordered the front of the building, the steps looking old and cracked. An ancient lawn chair sat against the outside wall of the cabin on the porch. Two small, mean windows were set into the front of the cabin, peering out like suspicious eyes. The roof was covered in mossy, peeling cedar shingles.

Sam looked away from the cabin when the man opened the door and stepped out of the car, walking around the rear of the vehicle to his side.

The teen had to lean forward as the door was opened and the man took a small silver key from one pocket of his denim jacket and the stun gun from another.

Sam swallowed, his gaze locked on that small, black, pronged weapon and waited as his abductor unlocked one of the cuffs from his wrist, allowing him to sit up.

"Get up, Son," the man said, "And don't try anything you'd regret."

For emphasis he laid his thumb against the trigger of the taser and Sam nodded in understanding. Standing, his muscles stiff and sore from being crammed first trunk and then forced to sit for hours, Sam tensed when his captor grabbed his shoulder, touching the end of the stun gun to his back.

With a slight push, the man guided Sam in the direction of the cabin and the teen moved forward slowly, heart hammering in his chest.

The steps groaned beneath Sam's feet but held his weight as he climbed up and stood, facing the front door.

"Open it," the man told him and Sam reached out with the hand that didn't have the cuffs hanging from around his wrist and pulled the door open.

Another slight push and Sam and his kidnapper were inside. The front door opened right onto a combination kitchen and den. The floors were wood with rugs sitting on the threshold of the front door, on the floor in front of the sink and at the saggy couch. The kitchen had stained wooden cupboards that looked like they could use a fresh coat, an old, mint green 1960's era refrigerator and stove, a chipped and cracked farmhouse-style sink. A wooden table and matching chairs that looked as though they belonged in a rich family's dining room rather than in a moldering cabin in the middle of nowhere. From the corner of his eye, Sam could see that the den had a burnt-orange coloured couch, a maroon armchair and lime green ottoman. A large, boxy television sat atop a TV stand that appeared to have been fished out of a landfill.

The man prodded Sam with the stun gun, indicating that he move and the teen stepped into the kitchen. The man released his grip on Sam's shoulder- pressing the taser hard against his back- and pulled out one of the chairs.

"Sit," Sam's captor said and he did so while the man slipped the empty cuff around the chair's arm, tethering the teen to the sturdy piece of furniture.

Sam watched as the man tucked the stun gun back into his jacket pocket and turned his back, moving the short distance towards the cupboards. He opened one and pulled out a glass, filling it with water from the tap- forced to wait a minute or two as the tap gurgled, water spraying from the mouth before flowing steadily- before setting it on the counter as he opened a couple of more cupboards, extracting a saucer, a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. The man grabbed a butter knife from one drawer and proceeded to make the sandwich.

Questions bubbled up inside Sam as he sat watching the man work but the line of his captor's shoulders told the teen he was closed off and would not answer anything he was asked.

The man turned around, bringing both the sandwich and glass of water to the table and setting both before Sam before taking a seat across from him.

Sam eyed the man warily as he began to speak, his tone non-threatening and oddly friendly.

"I'm sorry I had to get to you like that," the man apologized, "It must have been very frightening for you."

Sam said nothing.

"But many of the people I help… well, they don't think they need help and would not come willingly, you understand."

"Who are you?" Sam asked, his voice sounding small and nervous, making him wince.

The man smiled and leaned forward, hand outstretched, "Eli Flint."

Sam stared at his kidnapper's hand but made no move to shake it.

Flint sat back, folding his hands on the table instead.

"I know you must be thinking the worst of me," he continued as though nothing had happened, "But all I want to do is help you, Sam."

"I don't need help," the eighteen-year old argued.

Flint's expression turned condescending and sympathetic.

"You were on your way to college," he said, "Clearly you do."

Sam scowled, "I don't want to hunt anymore! I want to have a normal life! I don't want to end up killed by some monster before I'm an old man!"

"And what about saving people?" Flint asked, "Don't you want to save innocent people anymore?"

Sam glared at the man.

"You don't understand," he told the man, "I'm not a good hunter. I suck at it. My… father… knew it… never let me forget it. That's… that's why I thought he was okay with me going to school…"

Sam trailed off, the feeling of betrayal welling up again.

"I can empathize with you," Flint said, "I really can. I had a life before this; a regular life… a normal life… But how can you go back to that when you know what's really out there, Son? How can you go to college with all its essays and exams and Frat parties and act as though nothing was creeping around in the dark, just beyond your peripheral vision, like there was nothing waiting to sink its claws into you? I couldn't. I couldn't look at anything the same way again, knowing what was really out there."

Sam shook his head; "There are other hunters… ones better than me, to save people. No one will miss me."

Flint mirrored the young man's gesture, "Now that's where you're wrong. There are not as many hunters as you think, especially ones your age. What do you think will happen when old farts like me and your Dad are gone? Who's gonna carry the torch so to speak?"

Sam wasn't exactly sure what to say. He'd always assumed that there had been hunters as long as there had been monsters and felt confident that more men and women would take it upon themselves to kill the creatures that tormented the human race long after he himself was dead and gone.

Dean, Sam knew, would be a hunter until the day he died and Caleb Blacker too, who was only a few years older than his brother. There were younger hunters out there, of course there was.

"We need everyone on board, Son," Flint told him, "It isn't about what you want or I want anymore. You know the kinds of things that are out there and it's your responsibility to keep those who don't know about monsters safe."

"If this is your way of trying to guilt me into forgetting about going to college," Sam growled, "It isn't going to work. I am not a hunter."

"What about your mother?" Flint asked, "Don't you want revenge on that sumbitch who killed her?"

Sam shook his head; sure, it hurt like hell that he had never even met his mother because she had been taken away when he was only a baby but killing the monster that had murdered her? It wouldn't bring her back. Sam had seen how thoughts of revenge had consumed his father and he would not allow himself to turn into that.

Flint sighed, "Your Daddy said you were stubborn as a mule. I was hoping to convince you to drop all this college nonsense."

Sam bristled, "I am not going to forget about college. I not a hunter anymore."

"Not even the thought of innocent people… women and children can make you change your mind?" Flint asked and Sam shook his head, tight-lipped.

The man sighed and raked a hand through his silver hair.

"You must be hungry, Son," he said, "Why don't you eat?"

Flint waved a hand in the direction of the glass of water and saucer.

Sam snarled, "I don't want to fucking eat! I want you to let me go and leave me alone!"

With his free hand, the teen swept the dishes off the table, sending them crashing to the floor.

"Leave me alone!" Sam shouted, "Let me go and leave me alone!"

Flint remained sitting, peering down at the broken dishes and ruined food.

"You'll be wishing you'd eaten that," he commented casually.

Sam watched silently, glowering, as Flint stood and walked around the table, stepping over the broken dishes and ruined food on the floor, making his way into the den.

The young man craned his neck to peer over his shoulder to track Flint's movements.

Sam's captor knelt down in front of the couch and lifted up the colourful rug that sat before it and the eighteen-year old could just make out the square outlines of a door hidden in the floorboards. One of the boards that made up the secret doorway had a circular carving near the end, about the same diameter as a baseball which allowed for a metal ring to sit in it, a crude handle for the ease of opening and closing the door.

Flint reached down and pulled up at the ring, opening the door. Sam could just see the top of a ladder leaning against the floorboards, leading down into the lower level- maybe a root cellar of some sort- but the rest was hidden in darkness.

The man opened the trapdoor all the way so that it lay flat against the floorboards and stood, walking back towards Sam.

The young man stared, wide-eyed at Flint and tugged unsuccessfully at the handcuff tethering him to the chair.

"Let me go!" Sam snapped, "You can't do this!"

Flint said nothing to him; instead he pulled out the familiar key and the stun gun once again. Reaching towards Sam he unlocked the cuffs.

"Stand up," he ordered and for a moment Sam hesitated.

Flint turned on the stun gun, a blue arc of electricity jumping between the prongs of the weapon and Sam quickly did as he was told. Sam grunted when the man grabbed his shoulder tightly and steered him towards the den.

The teen stared down at the open cellar and saw a square patch of packed-dirt floor at the bottom of the ladder, illuminated by the light in the den.

"I'm not going down there," Sam snarled stubbornly and tried to twist away from Flint's hold.

The eighteen-year old cringed as the man squeezed his shoulder painfully and he heard a crackle of electricity come from behind him.

"You can go down the easy way or the hard way," Flint grunted in his ear, "Either way, you're going down, Son."

Sam swallowed thickly. He didn't want Flint to think that he had the upper hand and that he was scared of him but Sam truly didn't want to get shocked by that taser again.

Gritting his teeth, Sam crouched down, reaching out for the ladder.

"Good boy," Flint praised but did not put the stun gun away.

Slowly Sam crept down the ladder, watching Flint as the man stared down at him. Once his feet touched the earthen floor, Eli motioned for him to step back and he pulled the ladder up quickly, reaching across and closing the trapdoor, leaving Sam in complete darkness.

SPN

Dean paced the motel room with his cell phone in his hand while John sat at the table, writing in his journal.

"He should have called by now," Dean muttered, "Why hasn't he called?"

John sighed and looked up. It had been a day since Sam had left for Stanford and- if that had indeed been his destination- should have arrived.

"Dean," he said, setting his pen aside, "I'm sure Sam's fine. He's probably just setting up his room, sorting out his schedule, that kind of thing."

"But-" Dean tried but John shook his head.

"He's eighteen, Dean, not eight," he reminded his eldest, "I'm sure Sam will call when he's ready and not before. Don't smother him."

Dean frowned; did he really smother his brother? He didn't think he did. He was sure if Sam thought he was being too overprotective he'd tell him.

John's expression turned less irritated and more sympathetic, "Dean, this is hard for all of us, being separated like this, but I'm sure that once Sam does call you won't be able to get him to shut up about Stanford."

Dean nodded, smiling, excited for his sibling's inevitable call. Tossing his phone onto his bed, the twenty-two year old sat down to watch some mindless television while his father finished writing in his journal.


	5. Chapter Five

The trapdoor opened suddenly, a bright square of light shining down onto the dirt floor.

Sam looked up at the open door, squinting his eyes against the light.

Suddenly, the ladder Sam had been forced to climb down earlier- how long had he even been down in this cellar- was settled back into place.

Flint didn't show himself and the teen realized that he was meant to go up the ladder. Standing, cautious, Sam approached the ladder and reached out to grip its sides, raising one foot and setting it on the lowest rung.

Slowly, cautiously, Sam climbed the ladder pausing when his head cleared the opening for the trapdoor and he found himself staring at Flint's boots.

Tilting his head upwards, Sam saw that the older hunter was ready for him, handcuffs and Taser clearly visible.

The eighteen-year old froze for a moment before his feet seemed to move of their own accord, fearful that he wasn't moving fast enough for Flint and was hurt.

Sam clambered up the last rungs of the ladder and stood, eyeing Flint warily.

"To the kitchen," the hunter instructed, pointing in the direction with the Taser, "Go."

Sam gritted his teeth but he knew he had no choice; he had to do as Flint said or risk getting shocked again.

Turning his back on the older man- something John had told him never to do when faced with an enemy- Sam slowly made his way towards the cabin's small kitchen area.

"Sit," Flint instructed as Sam reached the table and the eighteen-year old sat down in the very chair he had earlier.

Once he was sitting, Flint took the handcuffs and looped one tightly around Sam's wrist, locking the other around the chair's arm, just like before.

Sitting the Taser on the far end of the table, out of Sam's reach, Flint went to the cupboards and brought out a glass and filled it with water from the tap.

Casually he returned to the table and sat down with the glass of water.

Sam hadn't realized just how thirsty he had been until now. His mouth and throat seemed to dry up in some strange Pavlovian response to the sight of the clear cut glass cup, its sides beaded with condensation.

"H-How long was I down there?" Sam asked, hating it when his voice cracked.

"Just a day," Flint informed him nonchalantly, as though commenting on the weather.

"I wanted to give you time to think about the conversation we had."

Sam said nothing. He stared at the man warily, waiting for Flint to speak again.

"I know I've been thinking," Flint continued, tenting his fingers, "And I think that what's wrong is that you're afraid. Afraid to hunt, to actually be good at it."

Sam just stared at the man.

"John Winchester's reputation precedes him," Flint continued, "He's a hard ass, even to his own kids, am I right?"

Eli Flint wasn't wrong. Sam didn't say so though. It didn't matter, the hunter smiled and Sam wondered if his expression betrayed him somehow.

"You feel like you'll never be good enough," the man kept up the diatribe, "Like you'll never live up to his expectations."

Sam's chest hurt at the thought of his father, the one who hated so much the fact that he had wanted to leave the hunting life, that he hated the idea of seeing his youngest son succeed in anything other than killing monsters-

Sam quickly steeled himself. He couldn't allow himself to show his emotions, to show weakness in front of Flint.

"I wouldn't be hard on you like John was," Flint told Sam in a reassuring tone, "A hunter's a hunter, whether good or not. We can't afford to be picky and something tells me you're better than you believe."

Sam raised an eyebrow. Was Flint suggesting he hunt with him?

"I'm not hunting," the teen growled, "With you or anyone!"

The eighteen-year old saw anger flash across Flint's face for an instant, just an instant, before it was gone and the man gave a condescending smile.

"We'll have to see about that, shall we?"

Sam said nothing more. Flint was fooling himself if he thought he could convince him to hunt again with pseudo-friendly conversation and fake sympathy.

"You must be thirsty," Flint said and pushed the glass of water close to Sam's untethered hand, "Have some water."

Sam only hesitated a moment before picking up the glass and downing the water in three long gulps.

Reluctantly he returned the empty cup to the table, the cool liquid in his stomach feeling more like a stone than water.

Flint took the glass and stood, setting the dirty dish into the sink before approaching Sam, picking up the Taser.

The teen waited with watchful eyes as Flint unlocked the handcuff from around his wrist. Unfortunately, the hunter didn't miss a beat and seconds later the business end of the Taser was pressed against Sam's back, between his shoulder blades.

"Up," Flint prompted and Sam stood slowly, knowing exactly where he was going and was hesitant to go again.

Cautiously, Sam moved away from the table, Flint right behind him, Taser ready should he try and make a run for it, and stepped towards the open mouth of the trap door, the top end of the ladder sticking up from the black square like some strange pronged tongue.

SPN

Flint closed the trapdoor above the young man with a dull thud. He engaged the lock and flipped the rug back over the door, hiding it from view.

Returning to the small kitchen, Eli tossed the handcuffs and Taser onto the counter before pulling a beer out of the old refrigerator and taking a seat at the table.

Twisting the cap off the bottle with more force than necessary, Eli took a swing of the icy alcohol, sighing.

He wondered how long Sam would be able to deny the truth, to hold out. John had told him that his youngest son was as stubborn as a mule but Flint had managed to convince other kids as headstrong as this one that hunting was the right path for them.

Taking another swallow of beer, Flint guessed he had only about three or four days before Sam decided to see things his way. After not eating for ninety-six hours at the most, Sam should be more than ready to listen to reason.

SPN

Sam waited in darkness for Flint to return.

He could count on his hand the number of times the man had brought him up to the main floor of the cabin and tried to convince him that the hunting community needed him.

But Sam wasn't convinced. Even as his stomach growled and grumbled with hunger and his mouth developed the texture of sandpaper from lack of water, Sam refused to give in, to give up on the dream of going to college, something he'd wanted to do since junior high school.

Trying to ignore his hunger and thirst, Sam wondered what would happen if he continued to refuse to hunt. Would Flint eventually see him as a lost cause and let him go? Somehow the eighteen-year old didn't truly believe that.

Eli Flint seemed intent on forcing Sam back into hunting.

Tears welled up unbidden in Sam's eyes and he quickly swiped them away, embarrassed, even though no one was around to see him cry.

He couldn't even think about escape from the cellar he was in. He'd examined every inch of it, even in the darkness, he'd used his hands and found that although the floor was hard-packed dirt, the walls were made up of rough-cut stones, each about the size of the average microwave. Standing on the tips of his toes, Sam couldn't even touch the ceiling and had no idea if there was a door that led to the outside, not that it mattered much if he couldn't reach it. As far as he knew, the only way in or out of the cellar was through the trap door in the cabin's den.

Without much to do but wait for the square of light to appear overhead, the trap door opening to admit him to Eli Flint's wonderful company.

W

Sam, his hand tethered to the kitchen chair, expected Flint to take his usually seat across the table from him and start in on why he had to forget about his college dreams and get back into hunting, craned his neck to peer over his shoulder as the man remained behind him, moving with purpose.

As Sam strained to peer behind his back, he caught sight of Flint heading into the cellar with a dented, green toolbox with chipping paint.

What the hell was Flint doing?

He watched as the hunter appeared again, now sans toolbox and left through the front door.

Turning in his seat, Sam tugged on the handcuff, trying to pull his hand through the metal ring.

"C'mon, c'mon," Sam ground out, gritting his teeth against the cuff's tight hold, "C'mon you son of a bitch."

The teen froze when he heard the cabin door creak open and he dropped his tethered hand, and looked over his shoulder.

Flint was carrying a large cardboard box in his arms. As Sam watched, he sat the box down beside the open trap door, climbed down the first few rungs before grabbing the box and continuing on his way.

After a couple of minutes the sound of a battery operated screwdriver, hammering and other noises that Sam couldn't quite place began.

Turning to stare at the interior of the kitchen, Sam waited for about ten seconds before he began to try and force his hand through the cuff. He made his hand as small as he could and struggled to pull it through the cold, metal loop. He bit his lip and pulled as hard as he could, ignoring the pain as the cuff bit into his wrist.

W

Sam met Flint's eye as the hunter stepped up to the chair the eighteen-year old was sitting in, catching sight of the young man's bloodied wrist.

Sam refused to look away from the hunter, trying to ignore the pain in his wrist and hand. After attempting, and failing, to pull his hand through the cuff, Sam had realized that he couldn't escape that way and had actually struck his thumb against the table, hard, but hadn't succeeded in breaking the bone, only in bruising the digit and causing it to swell.

Flint gave a shake of his head, a partly amused, partly sad look on his face and made his way to the sink. He pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap before returning to Sam's side. The hunter sat the glass down in front of the young man.

"Drink up, Son," Flint told Sam.

With his free hand, Sam took up the glass of water and sipped at the contents.

"Come on," Flint gave an encouraging growl, "I don't have all day."

Not meeting the hunter's gaze, Sam continued to sip at the water.

Clearly not in the mood to wait, Flint grabbed the glass from Sam's hand and shoved it towards the end of the table. Next, he pulled the Taser from the pocket of his jacket and pressed it into Sam's shoulder painfully.

"Up," he ordered and the teen obeyed, his heart picking up its pace, afraid that Flint might decide to use the Taser on him in his anger.

Sam stepped towards the open trapdoor, now no longer a black, square maw, the interior of the cellar was illuminated so much so that the tiny pebbles and clods of dirt on the ground cast their own shadows. The teen looked up Flint but the man did not even react.

"Go on in," Flint said in a somewhat friendly tone and Sam crouched down, gripping the ladder where it stuck out from the trapdoor.

Carefully, cautiously, Sam turned around and began making his way down the ladder, the blood from his wrist dripping from his hand and leaving red streaks against the wood of the ladder.

As soon as his feet touched the dirt floor, the trap door slammed shut above Sam and he heard the familiar sound of the lock engaging.

The eighteen-year old looked upwards, staring at the four high-powered lights set in each corner of the cellar. The lamps buzzed loudly, sending down bright, white light.

Sighing and rubbing at his brow with the fingers of his uninjured hand, Sam sat down, hungry and thirsty and sad.

W

Sam yawned widely and laid down on the ground, head pillowed by his arm, and closed his eyes.

Despite the bright lamplight, Sam felt weariness seep into his body- bone-deep, muscle-deep- from lack of food and a minimum of water. He had slept for hours at a time in the past days since he had been in the cellar, nothing to do but wait for Flint and sleep in order to escape thoughts of his father and brother, wait and sleep.

Closing his eyes now, Sam ignored the lights, burying his head against the crook of his elbow quickly falling asleep.

SPN

Flint paced across the cabin's wooden porch. He hadn't expected Sam to be as stubborn as he was. When he had done this before, helping kids realize that they needed to hunt, they'd been pretty easy to convince after a few days with no food and little water.

Flint hoped that with just a little more encouragement, the teenager would give in and realize being a hunter was more important than higher education.

SPN

Sam had just drifted off to sleep when a happy chorus of bongos, piano, and trumpets- Salsa music- started up, startling the young man out of his slumber.

Sam sat abruptly, searching for the source of the loud music and spied a set of speakers hanging in two corners of cellar, beside a couple of the lights.

Sam put his hands over his ears but that did little to block out the sound. He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the music to stop.

SPN

Flint peered at Sam from across the table. The kid looked bad; his face was pale, his eyes bloodshot with dark circles beneath them. His head was lowered with weariness.

He's not going to give in, Flint realized, even now.

The hunter felt a wave of anger and frustration sweep through him; the other kids hadn't held out this long. Why did Sam Winchester have to be so damn stubborn?

Standing up, Flint made his way to the cupboards and grabbed a glass, filing it with tap water.

He's not going to last much longer without something to eat, Flint thought to himself. The last thing he wanted to do was explain to John Winchester why his son had died under his watch.

Making his way to the fridge, Flint found a package of cold cuts and bottle of mustard. Next he grabbed the loaf of bread from the breadbox on the counter and proceeded to make a sandwich.

Bringing both food and drink to the table, the hunter set both items within reach of the young man.

Sam looked up at him with a cynical expression.

"You may think I'm the bad guy but I don't want you to get hurt," Flint told him grimly, "I'm trying to help you, not kill you."

The teen said nothing but slowly picked up the glass of water and took a sip.

Tiredly the young man lifted the sandwich and took a bite, chewing with effort.

"You've missed almost a week of school, Son," Flint spoke as Sam ate and drank, "Do you think a fancy school like Stanford is going to just let you show up without an explanation?"

"Pretty soon you'll be a footnote for them," the hunter wheedled, "Why not do something worth pursuing? It would be a hell of a lot more satisfying than having your nose in dusty old text books."

Sam shook his head, "I told you before. I am not hunting. Ever again."

Fling scowled, "Are you really such a selfish bastard that you still refuse to hunt, to save innocent people? People are dying, Son, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Sam didn't bother responding. He seemed more focused on eating than on anything else.

"What if Dean was hurt or killed because you weren't there to back him up? What if he needed you but you weren't there because instead of having his back, you were studying for some pointless test at your precious school?"

This time Flint did get a response from Sam. The eighteen-year old looked up, his eyes round and red-rimmed.

Flint smiled.

Sam sucked in a shaky breath and drained the remainder of the water in the glass.

"Don't you care about your brother? You're family?"

Sam shook his head ever so slightly, "T-They d-didn't care enough about what I w-wanted."

Frowning, Eli made a note not to bring up Sam's father and brother again, since that didn't seem to be a good direction to go in and grabbed the Taser.

SPN

"Dad," Dean spoke, his tone serious, "We haven't heard from Sam in days. What if-"

"He's fine, Dean!" John snapped from the driver's seat of the Impala, "He'll call when he's ready and not before!"

"But-" Dean began, but his father interrupted.

"Don't you think he might be happy to get away from us? Maybe he doesn't want to hear from you?"

The twenty-two year old sat back against his seat, taken aback.

Sam, not want to talk to him? No, would never ignore him like this.

Dean tried to tell himself that everything was alright and that maybe Sam was just having such a great time at college that it'd slipped his mind to call him. Yeah, that was it, Dean forced the thought, trying to ignore whisper of unease growing inside him.


	6. Chapter Six

Flint met Sam's eyes from across the table.

The teen had to be close to giving in by now.

The first two weeks in September were behind them and the third week was just beginning.

Flint's gaze left Sam's bloodshot, glassy eyes, and looked down at the glass of water and peanut butter sandwich sitting in front of him.

Reaching down, the older hunter picked up one half of the sandwich and bit into it, catching the eighteen-year old watching him keenly.

After chewing and swallowing one mouthful, Flint began to speak.

SPN

Over two weeks had passed since Sam had left for Stanford and Dean still had heard nothing from him.

Ignoring what John believed- that Sam would call them when he was ready and not before- Dean had started dialing his brother's number every opportunity he had and left message after message.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean sighed now, raking one hand through his short-cropped hair, "I don't know what your doing but college can be that distracting, can it? Just call me when you get this, alright?"

Closing his cell phone, the twenty-two year old looked up as John opened the motel room door with breakfast.

SPN

Sam peered down at the myriad newspaper clippings Flint expected him to read.

The teen closed his eyes and let out a breath to try and stop the pounding in his head.

When Sam opened his eyes again the clippings were still there, waiting as expectantly as Flint was though the eighteen-year old didn't know how the older man expected him to read anything when his head felt like it was about to explode and his eyes felt five sizes too big for their sockets.

"We don't have all day, Son," Flint's voice spoke up from the opposite end of the table, "Pick one."

Sam didn't respond.

Flint wanted him to choose one of the clippings- one of the possible supernatural creatures- to go after.

Sam lifted his gaze from the papers and turned his attention to the older man.

Did Flint expect him to go hunting now? He could barely keep his eyes open from exhaustion and his hands shook from weakness.

The teen shook his head, gently, to prevent pain from shooting through his skull.

"This ain't a game, Sammy," Flint said, as though he needed reminding, the man's voice taking on a slightly irritated edge.

"I c-can't do this," Sam ground out, his voice raspy, "I won't d-do this."

It was as though someone had turned a switch off in Flint's head. He stood up from his sit so quickly Sam flinched, his hands in fists on the table.

"You stupid, selfish son of a bitch!" Eli snapped, "People are dying and you don't care? Children are dying and you don't give a shit?"

Sam felt himself pressing his back against the chair he was bound to in order to be as far away as possible from the man's rage.

"You know what? You're no better than the monsters out there!" Flint reached out and swept the news clippings off the table, sending them fluttering to the floor in a grey flurry.

Moving around the table, Flint grabbed Sam's arm in one hand roughly and uncuffed him from the chair, not even bothering to take out the Taser.

Heaving Sam to his feet, Flint shoved the teen away from the table, towards the open trapdoor.

Sam, his thoughts sluggish and disoriented by lack of food and imbued with a certain recklessness, turned to face Flint, not as quickly as he would have liked, and punched the man as hard as he could in the sternum.

The reaction was instantaneous, Flint staggered backwards, gasping for air and in pain.

Sam, knowing he didn't have a long time, turned his back to Flint and rushed towards the cabin's front door.

The teen hit the door and fumbled with the handle, his trembling hands making his movements uncoordinated.

He was so focused on the door that he didn't notice that Flint had regained his composure and was fast approaching him.

The last thing Sam remembered before blacking out was a sharp burning sensation between his shoulder blades.

SPN

Flint sat at kitchen table and stared at the closed trapdoor, thinking about Sam.

It was now clear to him that the eighteen-year old wasn't going to be swayed by the current methods he was using. Flint could talk to Sam about all the innocents who were being killed by supernatural bastards until he was blue in the face and still the kid would refuse to hunt.

Flint however, did not give up easily.

A proud man, he would not admit he had failed, especially to a hunter such as John Winchester.

The boy just needs a different style of persuasion, Flint told himself, and then he'll see the error of his ways and be ready to join the fold once again.

SPN

John squinted in the dim light cast by the dust-coated bulb in the desk lamp. His journal sat open on top of the desk that faced the motel window. It was late at night and a pair of thick, snot-green curtains covered the glass.

Dean lay sound asleep across the room, sprawled out on one of the beds on his stomach, snoring slightly.

John turned in his seat and smiled at the sight of his eldest son. Facing the eyesore curtains once more, the eldest Winchester's thoughts turned from his oldest to his youngest son.

Two and a half weeks had passed since Flint had picked Sam up. John had had no communication with the other hunter but he wasn't overly concerned. Eli Flint was confident that he would be able to convince Sam that he needed to return to the hunting life and would contact John when his son was ready to come back.

John yawned widely and closed his journal, deciding to call it a night and join Dean in the Land of Nod.

Before they knew it Sam would be back and ready to hunt again, all the nonsense about going to college completely forgotten.

SPN

Sam watched Flint warily, struggling to figure out what the man was doing.

The hunter had unlocked the trapdoor, set the ladder down, waited for the teen to climb up, meeting him with the familiar handcuffs and Taser. Sam was led into the kitchen, made to sit at the table as he had been doing for the past two and a half weeks, cuffed to his chair and forced to wait as Flint, instead of taking a seat himself, picked up the metal tea kettle that sat on the gas-burning stove, went to the chipped farmhouse sink and began filling it with water.

Flint didn't speak as he worked, and to Sam, he seemed as calm and collected as though he were getting ready to make himself a cup of tea. Once the kettle was filled, Flint crossed from the sink to the stove and turned on the gas.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, Flint leaned against the counter facing Sam, arms folded over his chest, his pale blue eyes boring into the teen as though judging him.

Sam shifted his shoulders, his jaw clenching as the movement sparked a sudden burning pain between them.

Slowly the kettle came to a boil, the throaty wheeze gradually escalating to a shrill whistle.

Flint turned and took the kettle off the stove, turning off the gas as he did so. Instead of reaching for a mug from the cupboard, he faced Sam and stepped towards him.

"W-What are you doing?" the teen asked, his voice cracking from dehydration and tension.

Flint said nothing. He stepped right up beside Sam, holding the kettle up.

"What are you going to do with that?" the eighteen-year old asked, his eyes darting from Flint's face to the hot kettle and back again.

Sam's heart skipped a beat when he caught sight of a strange gleam in Flint's eye. The look in the man's eye told the teen that Eli Flint wasn't going to be beaten, by anything or anyone.

Lifting the kettle, the hunter tipped it upside down and poured the boiling water onto Sam's lap. The scalding liquid washed across his thighs and groin, ran down his calves to splatter onto the hardwood floor, it splashed up Sam's abdomen, droplets spotting his chest. The teen cried out as the blistering water soaked into his clothes, burning his skin.

"I wouldn't have had to do that if you'd only listened to me," Flint told Sam in an eerily calm voice.

Sam looked up at the hunter, his eyes stinging with tears as he struggled to breathe through the pain.

"If you'd agreed to leave this idea of college behind," the man continued, "I wouldn't have been forced to hurt you."

Sam closed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists against the pain and let out a sob of pain.


	7. Chapter Seven

Sam curled into a ball, shivering. He lay on his side, knees drawn up to his chest protectively, despite the pain it caused. Sweat beaded on the teen's face, mixing with the tears that squeezed out of his eyes.

After scalding Sam with the boiling water, Flint had forced him up and back into the cellar.

Sam didn't know how much time had passed- it could have been hours- all he knew was that the pain did not pass.

The eighteen-year old startled as the cacophony of Salsa music began playing suddenly, although sleep was the farthest thing from the teen's mind.

He listened listlessly to the jangle of uplifting music and felt his spirits sink lower and lower. Flint wasn't going to let him leave, not until he'd denounced his dream of going to Stanford and agreed to hunt, and Sam couldn't do that. Escape seemed near impossible; Sam was either locked in the cellar or cuffed to a kitchen chair with Flint only mere feet away.

No one knew where he was and even if his father and brother did know, Sam wasn't counting on them to come for him. They were the ones who had talked to Flint, planned all of this; his Dad and Dean hadn't ever wanted him to go to school.

Sam barely noticed the tears of hopelessness streaming down his face. He'd never felt so helpless in his life before and all he wanted to do was shrivel up and disappear.

SPN

Flint paced the cabin's front porch irritably, a cigarette sticking out from between his lips.

The hunter's hands clenched into fists compulsively. He hadn't smoked since his wife and daughter had died but it seemed that the frustration and stress Sam Winchester was causing him had forced him to pick up the habit once again. He'd always kept a pack close at hand- just in case, for old time's sake- but he hadn't lit up in years.

Taking a long drag of the smoke, Flint turned back towards the cabin and stepped inside.

He was certain that by now Sam could be convinced to give up this foolish idea of a higher education and if he still held onto his obsolescence, then Flint wasn't afraid to continue to up the ante. Anything to turn the eighteen-year old's thoughts toward what his father wanted.

Making his way across the cabin and stopping in front of the couch, Flint nestled his cigarette into his mouth once more and flipped the carpet up, revealing the trapdoor.

SPN

Sam looked up wearily as the door to the cellar opened and a square of light shone down onto the dirt floor below. He let out a shuddering sigh but made no move to get up.

Seconds later, the ladder touched the hard-packed earth and Sam's heart skipped a beat at the thought of climbing it into the cabin proper.

A pair of boots- Flint's boots- appeared at the top of the ladder and were slowly followed by the hunter himself as the man descended the ladder.

Despite the pain, Sam pressed his hands against the floor of the cellar and with agonizing slowness- punctuated by whimpers- sat up.

Once Flint had set his boots on the floor, he turned around and Sam blinked, his tired eyes causing the older man to appear as though a corona of light surrounded him.

"How are you feeling, Son?" Flint asked as though he truly cared for Sam's welfare.

Sam stared up at his tormentor but made no reply.

"As I've said," Flint continued, "I didn't want to have to hurt you, understand? That wasn't my intention. Your Daddy said you were stubborn as a mule but I guess I didn't really believe him."

The man chuckled a little and Sam shuddered.

"Are you ready to reconsider school?" the hunter continued, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and breathing out a plume of white smoke.

"Wh-why can't you just leave me alone? I-I'm not hurting anybody," Sam asked feeling tears in his eyes and wishing he were stronger.

Flint raised his free hand, ran his fingers across his neatly trimmed, grey beard and sighed as though he was tired.

"I'd really hoped that I wouldn't have to hurt you again, Son."

Sam sat back and stared at Flint in disbelief for a moment before shoving himself away, the heels of his feet digging into the dirt and his hands clawing at the earth fruitlessly. His back pressed against the rough-hewn rock wall of the cellar, trapped.

Flint walked forward, his face a mask of sympathy but his eyes flashing with anger.

He stepped right up to Sam, invading the teen's personal space and reached down, grabbing the young man's shirtfront and pulling him into a standing position.

With one hand fisted in the front of Sam's shirt, Flint took the cigarette out of his mouth with his free hand and held it up. Sam struggled against the hunter, his hands shoving against Flint's chest but he was too weakened to defend himself.

"Don't-" Sam began but the older man was beyond listening.

Bright hot pain bloomed against the skin of the teen's cheek as Flint pressed the burning end of the cigarette into his face. Sam gasped in pain and flinched away, the back of his head cracking against the hard stone wall.

Flint chuckled as Sam sagged, dazed, and tightened his grip on the eighteen-year old to prevent him from collapsing.

"Your willfulness will get you nowhere, Sam," Flint said as he burnt Sam's face a second time, the red end of the cigarette pressing against the skin beneath his right eye.

"Why don't you give up this stupid dream before you get yourself into deeper trouble?"

Sam's only response was to clench his jaw so tightly that he was certain his teeth would crack from the pressure.

SPN

"Something's not right, Dad," Dean growled, ignoring his cheeseburger and staring straight at John, "Sam hasn't called us in three weeks. Three weeks! He wouldn't do that!"

John sat his own burger down and looked long and hard at his oldest son.

"I don't know what you're getting so worked up about, Dean," the father replied carefully, "If Sam doesn't want to talk to us than that's his choice. You know what he's like-"

"I know he wouldn't go for almost a month without talking to us, without calling to tell us he got to college safely, if he's having a good time or not," Dean argued, feeling his hackles raising in anger.

How could John be so calm about Sam's silence? Didn't it concern him that his youngest son- who'd never been away from either of his family members for more than one night- hadn't contacted them?

"Dean," John said in a warning tone, telling his eldest to get a grip on his emotions.

"I don't know what Sam's thinking," he continued, "But maybe, don't you think, college has changed your brother? Maybe he doesn't want to associate with us anymore because he's going to be some big-shot lawyer some day."

Dean just stared at John in disbelief. He had thought his father was happy for his brother and making it into such a prestigious school.

John, realizing he'd said the wrong thing and let a little of his true colours show, took a gulp of beer from the bottle close to his hand and sighed.

"Look, Dean," he said in a calm, reasonable tone, "I know you want to hear from Sam, that you're worried about him… I am too. But we both have to give him space; he's not a baby anymore. I'm sure, that when he's ready, Sam will call and talk your ear off about what a great time he's having. Okay, Dean? Just be patient."

Dean appeared to mull over his father's words for a long moment before he nodded, his expression telling John he wasn't completely convinced of what the eldest Winchester thought of his youngest son but said nothing else on the matter.

Sighing, the twenty-two year old picked up his cheeseburger again and began eating, hoping that when Sam did call he had a damn good explanation for leaving it so long.

SPN

Flint stepped down the ladder just as the final week of September was beginning, seething with barely-contained anger. Turning around once his feet were on solid ground, the hunter quickly spied Sam Winchester huddled against one wall. Holding one end of a rolled up newspaper in his clenched fist, Flint strode across the cellar towards the cowering teen.

As the hunter made his way towards his captive, he unrolled the newspaper he held to the front page and began to read:

"…The investigation still continues into the five deaths that have plagued the city. The most recent murder, that of eleven year old Chloe Whitelake has only left the police and public with even more questions…"

Flint stopped and rolled the paper back up.

"Five," he growled, "Five children, little girls, are dead in a city only hours away and here you are."

"They are DEAD!" Flint shouted, "And you could have SAVED them!"

The man raised his fist and brought the rolled newspaper down on Sam's head as though the teen was a puppy that had piddled on the floor.

"This is your fault!" Flint snarled as Sam raised his arms above his head, "They're dead because of YOU!"

"DEAD! BECAUSE! OF! YOU!" Flint continued the tirade, punctuating every word with a blow of the newspaper.

With a snarl of fury, the older man tossed the newspaper away and aimed a kick at the teen's abdomen.

Sam cried out in pain and wrapped his arms around his vulnerable stomach. Flint kicked him a second time, the toe of his boot connecting with Sam's arm.

Another blow from the hunter's boot was aimed high and clipped Sam on the chin, splitting the skin and driving the young man into unconsciousness.

Angrily Flint punched the wall once before turning around. He grabbed the newspaper and headed back upstairs.

SPN

Dean had had enough. He held his breath as he held his cell phone tightly against his ear.

If Sam wasn't going to call him back, the older Winchester brother had other ways of finding out if his brother was all right.

And a nagging feeling in Dean's stomach that something was terribly wrong didn't give him much confidence.

"Welcome to Stanford University. If you know the extension of the person you are trying to reach, please enter it now. If you would like to speak to someone directly, please stay on the line."

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding and stayed on the line.

"Good afternoon, I'm Laura, how can I help you?" a friendly female voice greeted Dean as a woman from the registrar's office answered.

"Hey, I'm looking for my brother," Dean began, "His name's Sam Winchester and he got a full-ride to your school but I haven't heard from him at all and-"

Laura from the Registrar's Office interrupted Dean, "I'm sorry, I can't give you out any student information."

"I… I don't need any information," the twenty-two year old argued, "I just want to make sure my brother got to school in one piece."

"Why don't you call your brother- Sam, was that it- and I'm sure he'll tell you all about us here at Stan-" Laura began again but Dean jumped in.

"I can't call my brother," he all but growled, "That's why I called you. I haven't heard from him in days."

"I'm afraid I can't give you any student information," Laura repeated unnecessarily, "But if you're that concerned maybe you should try talking to the police. I'm sure they'd be-"

Dean ended the call, grinding his teeth in frustration. He let out a sigh and raked a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

"What the hell's with you, Sammy? Why won't you call?"

SPN

Sam barely made it to the top of the ladder before he collapsed. He sprawled out weakly on the cabin's hardwood floor for a moment before Flint grabbed the back of his shirt and lifted him up until Sam was once again on his feet. Flint kept a vice-like grip on Sam's arm as he led him to the kitchen, the Taser pressing threateningly into the teen's back.

Sam practically fell into the chair and slumped, exhausted, hungry and in pain, the eighteen-year old closed his eyes.

"I'm not playing around anymore, Son," Flint's voice cut through the darkness to paint red clouds against the back of Sam's eyelids.

"It was funny before, but now I'm not in the laughing mood," the hunter continued.

Sam kept his eyes shut and didn't respond.

"We both know you ain't leaving this cabin until you agree to hunt again, right? I made that clear from the start?" Flint kept up the conversation and suddenly his voice came from only inches away from the younger man.

"So why don't you take my advice and stop making this so hard on yourself?"

Sam opened his eyes and saw Flint's nose inches away from his own, the hunter's icy blue eyes burning into his green ones. Lazily, Flint reached out and placed both hands gently around Sam's neck. The look in the older man's eyes belied the fact that the frustration at Sam's continued resistance was getting the better of him.

"Your Daddy's expecting you to hunt," Flint reminded Sam, "And I'll be damned if I don't deliver."

Suddenly the teen's airway was blocked off and he couldn't breathe. Flint was squeezing his neck, the man's lips pulled back in a sneer as he drew his hands tighter and tighter around Sam's throat.

The eighteen-year old raised the hand not cuffed to the chair and laid his fingers against Flint's arm in a pathetic attempt to stop the man. Sam quickly grew dizzy, as though his skull was full of helium and his head would detach from his body and float away any moment, bright lights flashing in front of his eyes, a string of saliva dribbling from his mouth as choked to death-

Sam bent over coughing and hacking, his free hand going to his bruised throat.

Flint eyed him as though he were a particularly nasty insect.

"Goddamn it, boy!" Eli snapped and backhanded Sam across the face.

The next blow landed with a closed fist, Sam's nose breaking on impact and gushing blood down the front of his shirt.

Turning away from the young man, Flint went to the gas stove and grabbed the kettle.

"No," Sam said, "Please… Not again."

But Flint wasn't listening. He filled the kettle up with water from the sink before setting it once again on the stove.

Sam shook his head as the hunter approached him again. He cried out as the man's fist slammed into his face, again and again and again.

Sam's head lay on the table as the kettle began to whistle. He tried to force his swollen eyes open and blink through the blood to watch Flint but unconsciousness once again was beckoning to him.

As Eli approached him, kettle in hand, Sam groaned and tried to sit up. Flint reached out and grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt and pulled him up so that the teen's back rested against the back of the chair.

Tears wetted Sam's eyes as he gazed at the silver metal teakettle over him like the sword of an executioner.

"Please," Sam croaked, hating that he was begging but the words seemed to push themselves out of his mouth of their own accord.

Flint's face was a mask; only his eyes betrayed any emotion- anger and a fanatical determination- before he poured the boiling water over Sam's head.


	8. Chapter Eight

Eli Flint sat out, watching the stars appear, cigarette in one hand.

Sam Winchester was not going to come back to hunting, he saw that now. Nothing he did or said was going to convince the young man to forget about Stanford.

Flint took a drag of his cigarette.

His pride though, would not allow him to admit defeat.

One way or another, Eli would win.

Taking the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbing it out on the railing of the porch, Flint went back into the cabin, the door slamming behind him.

Walking past the kitchen and den, to the back of the cabin where the single large bedroom was located, Flint grabbed his luggage and took out his pistol.

Checking to make sure it was loaded, Eli returned to the kitchen, gun in hand.

SPN

Dean yawned and sat up. He ruffled his short-cropped hair and peered sleepily around the motel room. He was alone. His Dad had gone to buy them both some breakfast.

Standing up, Dean grabbed his duffel from the end of his bed and picked out some clothes before heading into the bathroom to shower.

W

Ten minutes later, Dean emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, dressed for the day in blue jeans and a long-sleeved navy blue shirt.

Tossing his towel across his bed, the twenty-two year old noticed John's cell phone sitting on the nightstand between his bed and his father's.

Dean saw the white light on the screen blinking that indicated John had a message waiting from him. Reaching out, the young man picked up the phone and flipped it open.

John shouldn't be too much longer- he was just getting breakfast- and Dean knew whoever had called could wait but that nagging feeling that told him something was wrong, that Sam was in trouble flared up again and the young man knew his father wouldn't be too ticked if he'd listened to the message.

Especially if it was someone in need of their help.

Flipping open the phone, Dean pressed all the right buttons then brought the cell to his ear so he could listen to the message.

Dean frowned, for a moment, no one spoke and all he could hear in the background was a soft rustling, as though someone was moving, then:

"…John, I couldn't convince your son… but he won't be going to college-"

The message ended abruptly as though the man had intended to keep talking but someone or something had caused him to stop before he'd had a chance to continue.

Dean frowned, that worried feeling increasing and he felt nausea bubbling up in his stomach.

What was going on? Who was this man? What was he talking about?

Dean pressed the button to repeat the message and listened to it a second time.

"…John, I couldn't convince your son… But he won't be going to college-"

Convince your son? Dean thought, convince him of what? Was it Sam he was talking about? And what the hell was this about not going to college?

Dean lowered the cell phone as the message replayed over and over in his mind.

Had something really happened to Sam? Did this guy know who did it? Was he the guy who'd done something to his brother?

Dean thought back to the days before Sam left for Stanford. At first John had practically forbade Sam from going to college but then, oddly, he stopped talking about it. John had stopped talking about Sam's pending trip to school at all, hell, he'd even insisted he drive Sam to the bus station himself.

Had Dad done something? Dean thought back to John's complete unconcern when Sam failed to call and tell them he'd arrived in California safely and felt a ball of icy fear form in his belly.

As though alerted by his eldest's thoughts, John Winchester opened the motel room door and stared at his son for a moment, a confused look on his face.

"What the fuck did you do, Dad?" Dean demanded, "What the fuck did you do to Sammy?"


	9. Chapter Nine

"What?" John asked, "Dean, what are you talking about? I didn't do anything to Sam. Did he call you? What did he say?"

"No, Dad," Dean snapped, "Sam didn't call. But you know who did?"

The twenty-two year old opened the phone once again and punched the button to listen to messages, allowing the one to play out loud as Dean put the cell's speakerphone on.

As the mysterious caller relayed his message for a third time, Dean watched his father's face grow pale.

"Who is that, Dad?" Dean demanded and threw his father's phone at him.

The cell bounced off John's chest and landed on the carpeted floor at his feet.

"Now," the eldest Winchester began, "Listen to me, Dean-"

"NO!" Dean shouted, "I want you to tell me who that was and what he has to do with Sammy!"

John didn't speak for a long moment, then his shoulders slumped and he ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard, resigned.

"His name's Eli Flint," John began, "He's a hunter."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, "Okay, what does he have to do with Sam?"

"He…uh…he came to me and said he could help," John said and then paused, "Help me with Sam."

Dean's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Flint said he could help convince Sam to get back into hunting," John kept going, knowing that Dean wouldn't be happy if he stopped.

"Get Sammy back into hunting?" Dean repeated.

John nodded.

"You never wanted him to go to school," his son said, "From the moment Sammy got his acceptance letter. We thought- Sammy thought- you'd be proud of him and when you stopped hounding him about it… you didn't have any intention of seeing him go to college, did you?"

John nodded and sighed, "I don't expect you to understand-"

"You're right, Dad, I don't understand," Dean snapped, "I don't understand why you'd talk to some random hunter about what Sam's doing and why you'd agree to have him try and convince him to forget about school."

"It's not safe for him out there!" John suddenly growled back, "He'd never been alone before and you know what a magnet for trouble he is!"

Dean took a few steps forward, no longer crossing his arms, his hands now clenched into fists.

"Why didn't you say that, Dad? Why didn't you say you were worried about him instead of just forbidding him to go!" Dean didn't know if his father was lying when he said he was concerned about Sam's safety but that didn't matter right now, what the twenty-two year old was really concerned about was what this Eli Flint guy had done to his brother.

"What was he doing to Sam? Dad, what was he doing?"

"I don't know!" John snapped, "I don't know, Dean! He said he'd help change Sam's mind about going to Stanford. He didn't say how he'd do it, he just told me he'd done this before and was confident he could help-"

"What about the message?! What the hell does that mean, Dad?" Dean asked, feeling his fear start to turn to panic.

Not only had his father been in cahoots with someone he barely to get Sam back into the hunting life through unknown means, John had lied to Dean about it.

"Is… Is Sammy dead?" Dean asked, his hazel eyes filling with water.

"N-No… I would never, never want Sam dead," John protested, his face as pale as a sheet as the seriousness of his relationship with Flint sank in, "I… I don't know what he means."

Dean took a deep breath and sniffed, trying to get ahold of his emotions.

"Do you know where Flint is, so we can go get Sammy?"

John shook his head, his heart beginning to beat fearfully.

"We have to find Sammy," Dean insisted, "I don't care what you think about him going to college. We are getting him back. Now."

John nodded in agreement but his son was no longer paying attention to him, clearly more concerned with figuring out where to find his brother.

SPN

Flint sat down at the kitchen table, facing out towards the den, setting the gun down in front of him and stared at the colourful rug covering the hidden entrance to the cellar for a long time.

SPN

"Think, Dad, did he ever say where he was from or where he was going?" Dean demanded, pacing around the motel room, full of worried energy and unable to remain still.

John however, was the opposite of his eldest son. He sat slumped on the end of his bed, shoulders sagging, a hangdog expression on his tired face.

"I don't know," the older Winchester replied, "I don't think so."

Dean glared angrily at his father. John Winchester, ex-Marine and one hell of a good hunter, hadn't thought to ask where Eli Flint would be keeping his youngest son? What the hell had John been thinking?

"Damn it!" John growled, "I should have asked… I should have asked more about him…"

"You think?" Dean asked sarcastically.

John's expression turned even more self-deprecating.

"We'll find Sam," the eldest Winchester said, "We will."

Dean eyed his father suspiciously, "We'd better."

SPN

Fishing in his pocket, Flint pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. He found John Winchester's number in his contact's list and dialed it.

The man felt extremely calm as he listened to the phone ring and ring before going to voice mail. That was all right, he'd leave a message for the man. It wasn't like he'd get a chance to talk face-to-face with John Winchester again.

Flint listened as the younger hunter's recorded voice told him to leave his name, number and a message before speaking himself.

For a moment or two, Eli said nothing, gathering his thoughts, thinking of just what to say:

"…John," he began regrettably, "I couldn't convince your son…"

He paused again, before continuing, "But he won't be going to college-"

Flint pressed the 'End' button before the last word was even out of his mouth and sat his phone down.

Taking a deep breath, he now picked up the pistol he had brought out with him. Checking it was loaded; he cocked back the hammer. Placing the muzzle of the weapon in his mouth, the hunter tilted his head back slightly and curled his forefinger around the trigger. He looked past the handgun to the trapdoor and squeezed the trigger.

SPN

Dean had no idea where they could even begin to start looking for this Eli Flint guy or Sam. John was no help and Dean felt as though they would just be searching for a needle in a haystack if they struck out now to look for his brother.

John may not know where Eli Flint called home but gradually his eldest son recalled the name of someone who may.

It seemed as though Bobby Singer knew everything about everything when Dean had been a kid and the young man was aware that the veteran hunter kept tabs on many other hunters, helping them out with information and advice as he had assisted John Winchester when he was first starting out.

Dean normally wouldn't bring up the grizzled hunter's name in polite conversation with his father, well aware that John still held a grudge against Bobby Singer when his sons had still been boys.

Dean had been twelve and Sam was eight when John cut ties with his old mentor. The eldest Winchester had often left his boys in Bobby's care whenever he could, so he could hunt without worrying about his sons being in some motel room.

Finally, Bobby Singer had had enough of John and his unique parenting style and had told the father exactly what was on his mind. John, however, was less than receptive and had told Bobby in no uncertain terms that Sam and Dean were his sons and that he wasn't going to be told how to raise them. He'd taken his young boys away from Bobby's house and hadn't looked back once, irritated that the childless older hunter would have the audacity to tell him how to act as a parent.

Dean was sure John hadn't spoken to Bobby, even on the phone, since that day he'd practically dragged him and Sam out of the veteran hunter's house almost ten years ago but now was not the time to hold grudges. Dean felt that if anyone would know where Flint was, Bobby Singer would.

"Bobby'll know where to find out where this asshole is, you think?" Dean asked and John looked up, surprised.

"Bobby Singer?" he asked and his son nodded.

John's face darkened but Dean jumped in before his father could speak, "He has contact with hunters all over the country and outside of the country! He has to know where Flint is or at least give us somewhere to start!"

John opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, but then closed it again.

"Yeah, yeah he will," he muttered.

Dean could see that the idea of talking to Bobby Singer again was hard for his father but he could have cared less about what John was feeling at the moment. This was about finding Sammy and getting him back safely, not some years-long grudge against a man who was only trying to help a fellow hunter.

"Do you have his number on your phone?" Dean asked, knowing it was a long shot and it was right; John shook his head and the twenty-two year old felt the urge to punch his father.

"I remember it," John said instead and rattled off the veteran hunters telephone number.

Dean grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand where he'd left it and pressed in the number, holding his breath as the phone on the other end of the line rang and rang.

"Whatdyouwant?" a gruff, irritable voice growled and Dean felt some of the tension that had been growing in his back and shoulders loosen just a little bit.

"Bobby Singer," Dean said, "It's Dean Winchester."

There was a long pause and the young man thought that Bobby might hang the phone up but then he spoke.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean smiled despite his anxiety.

"Haven't heard from you in ages," Bobby said, "How are things?"

Dean let out a breath, "I can't talk right now. Do you know Eli Flint?"

There was a pause on the other end and then Bobby answered, "Yeah, I do. Squirrelly fellow. What do you want to know about him?"

"Where does he hang out? Does he have a house or an apartment he calls home?" Dean asked, hoping Bobby wouldn't say he was a motel-hopper like the Winchesters.

"I think he's got a cabin in Oregon," Bobby told him, "Deschutes National Forest. But-"

Dean didn't even bother saying goodbye. He ended the phone and looked up at his father, a fire of determination and hope kindling in his belly.

"He has a cabin in Oregon," Dean told John and his father nodded, standing.

Gathering up their belongings, stuffing clothes and toiletries into duffel bags, the two eldest Winchesters made it out of their motel room in record time.

John unlocked the Impala's trunk and both he and Dean deposited their luggage inside before climbing into the car.

John sat behind the wheel and started the classic car's engine, peeling out of the parking lot without bothering to check out at the motel office.

Dean leaned forward in the front passenger's seat. They were at least a twenty-hour drive away from the national forest- more if traffic was bad- and the young man had an awful feeling that they were already too late.


	10. Chapter Ten

John and Dean drove as though there were Hellhounds chasing them, stopping only to top up the Impala's gas.

The eldest Winchester gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, praying that his youngest son would be all right. He had no idea what Flint may have been doing to his son to 'convince' him to go back to hunting but if Sam was hurt, John wouldn't hesitate to make the man pay for what he'd done.

John didn't deny that he was also responsible for whatever happened to his youngest son now. He had been so intent on making sure Sam did not reach Stanford that he recruited the assistance of a complete stranger to help force his son back into the hunting lifestyle. John had just been so angry that Sam would want to leave his family and pretend that nothing was wrong in the world; that he wanted to pretend that there were no monsters out there. He should have looked into Eli Flint, to make certain that his intentions were nothing but pure.

Despite John's concern for his youngest son and his guilt over his own actions and ill judgment, the father felt a glimmer of happiness in the midst of his anxiety. A month had passed since Flint had taken Sam under his wing, and regardless of everything else, John was certain such a distinguished institution as Stanford University would not allow Sam to attend after four weeks of absence and without any explanation for the truancy.

W

Dean and John drove all through the night and by morning they had arrived on the outskirts of the Deschutes National Forest, the sun painting orange and pink light across the thick growth of trees.

Instead of taking the main road into the woods- if any hunter had a cabin in a national forest they would make sure to stay far away from the civilian populace- John turned the classic Chevy onto a fire road used only by emergency services or park rangers.

Dean didn't know how long it would take to search for Flint's cabin. He hoped it wouldn't take too much time; he really needed to see his brother.

"We'll take the Impala in as far as we can and then we can get out and walk," John said and Dean nodded, tight-lipped.

As they moved deeper and deeper into the forest, Dean felt his heart rate ratcheting up. He didn't know when or in what condition they would find Sam and if his younger brother was hurt…

"There's gonna be hell to pay," the twenty-two year old muttered out loud.

W

As soon as the trees began crowding in on the fire route so that their branches and leaves scratched and whipped against the Chevy's sides and roof, John cut the engine in the middle of the track and exited the vehicle.

Making his way to the rear of the Impala, John unlocked the trunk and took out a pistol, a flashlight and after a moment's pause, one of the woolen 'emergency' blankets.

Leaving the trunk open for his son, John waited for Dean to get his weapon and torch before closing the lid and handing him the blanket.

The twenty-two year old looked at him for a long second before John turned away and started through the trees.

"We'd best stay together," John told his son, "It's easy to get lost in here."

He heard Dean coming up behind him as he picked his way past birch and maple, stepping loudly over leaves already beginning to fall.

W

The sun rose towards its apex as Dean and John marched through the forest, eyes keen for any sign of a cabin amongst the trees.

Father and son said nothing to one another. Dean was furious with John and he was prepared to become even more so depending on Sam's condition when they found him.

Please be okay, Sammy; Dean thought desperately, please be alright.

W

John and Dean crossed the paved road, watching out for vehicles and made their way towards a narrow path in the trees that their keen hunter's eyes had seen instantly. The path, which wouldn't be visible to a civilian until they were on top of it, appeared to be more of a deer-path than anything else.

Dean looked up at John, "You think? I mean, no one would notice this and if they did, they'd think it was only game trail or something."

John peered down the two-lane asphalt road and nodded, "I'm pretty sure this road leads to the main entrance to the forest."

"Would Flint have gone right past the front gate with Sammy?" Dean asked, wondering if his brother had tried to call for help or if the man had threatened him into silence.

John shook his head; "He probably took the back way in, where there would be no civilians or park rangers to see."

Dean nodded and followed his father down the trail, his grip on his weapon tightening.

W

The two eldest Winchesters walked about half a mile before coming upon a clearing where a hulking, uncared-for cabin sat.

The cabin walls had been constructed using rough-hewn logs painted over with a colour that may once have been yellow but was now a dirty white. A narrow porch stretched the width of the front of the cabin, its steps looking treacherous for the ankles. The roof was covered with mossy cedar shingles and twin windows peered out from the front of the cabin. An old lawn chair, its seat and backing frayed with age and its legs rusted by the elements, sat on the porch beside the door.

The cabin wasn't the only thing in the clearing, however; a classic silver T-Bird was parked in front of the mean-looking building.

Dean approached the cabin and vehicle, glancing back at his father expectantly.

"Is this his car?"

John shrugged, "It might be… I don't really remember."

Dean sneered and turned away from the sheepish look on John's face and continued forward until his father called out.

"Stop!"

The twenty-two year old peered over his shoulder and waited for his father to explain.

"Flint may not be too happy that we've come to get Sam," John said, moving to meet Dean as he spoke, "We need to treat this with caution, just like any other case."

Dean didn't look happy about the instructions but nodded and waited until John met up with him.

Stepping gingerly, the twenty-two year old climbed the rotted wooden stairs and onto the porch.

He wanted so badly to call out his brother's name but he knew that he and John might still have the element of surprise and speaking out loud would ruin that.

Instead of opening the door and startling Flint, which could end disastrously, Dean peered through one of the front windows and saw a den complete with a worn couch, a coffee table and rabbit-eared television set.

He heard John step up onto the porch behind him and he moved across to the second window without looking at his father.

Dean saw a kitchen furnished with appliances that looked as though they had been bought in the nineteen-sixties, a sturdy pinewood table with matching chairs… and a dead man.

"Dad," the twenty-two year old hissed and reached out for John without taking his eyes off the body.

"Is…" Dean paused and licked his suddenly dry lips, "Is that Flint?"

The young man sensed his father hovering over his shoulder and he heard John give a sharp intake of breath, not really a gasp but almost one.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"SAMMY!" Dean shouted, turning on his heels and rushing to the front door, finding it open and shoving it wide, "SAMMY!"

"Dean!" John called and he grabbed his son's arm.

The young man turned on his father and ripped his arm from John's grasp.

"Be careful," the eldest Winchester warned, "Flint may not have been the only one here."

Dean turned away, calling his brother's name again and moved deeper into the cabin.

John stood in the doorway, afforded a good view of both the den and the kitchen. He found his gaze drawn to Flint's body, the man leaning back slightly in his chair, blood painting the cupboards and counter behind him a rusty red; bits of bone and grey matter dried into the red stains.

"He's not here!" Dean called as he made his way back to the main area of the cabin, "HE'S NOT HERE!"

John could hear the panic in his son's voice and felt his own anxiety increase tenfold.

"Calm down," the eldest Winchester said, "Yelling like that isn't going to help find Sam."

Dean glared at his father but didn't shout again.

John raked a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and stepped further into the cabin, moving into the den and paused.

"Are there any outbuildings?" Dean asked, "A garage or a shed or, or something? Maybe Sam's there…"

John shook his head and took a few steps forward until he reached the colourful rug someone had knotted together with rags.

The hunter frowned and looked down. Something was different about this area of the floor. It sounded almost… hollow.

Dropping to a knee, John moved the rug out of the way to reveal the square outline of a door in the floor.

"Dad, what's that? A trapdoor?" Dean asked and moved closer.

"I think it's the entrance to some kind of cellar," John replied and looked up, his eyes meeting Dean's.

"Open it," the twenty-two year old growled and John reached down, gripping the handle without looking at it, keeping his eyes glued to his son's.

"Locked," John said and Dean wore.

"It's a padlock," the father continued, "There should be a key."

Dean peered over his shoulder at Flint.

Turning, the young man hurried to the hunter's corpse and began roughly going through his pockets.

"C'mon you bastard," Dean snarled as he dumped a handful of change, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and a cell phone that looked suspiciously like Sam's, onto the floor.

A moment later Dean returned to his father's side, triumphant, and John took the key from him, unlocking the padlock and tossing it aside.

Gripping the handle, John pulled open the door as wide as it would go and peered down at a hard-packed dirt floor.

"Sammy?" Dean called, "Sammy, are you down there?"

Turning to his father, Dean addressed John, "How are we going to get down there?"

Taking note of the drop between the open trapdoor and the cellar floor, John stood and looked around, "There should be a ladder or something like that-"

Dean, though, couldn't wait. He sat down on the edge of the opening for a moment before pushing himself out into empty air, landing in a crouch at the bottom.

W

Dean expected the cellar to be dark and the need for his eyes to adjust but he gazed around for a moment, taking note of the high-powered lights in each of the large room's four corners.

His brother was easy to spot against the earthen tones of the rocks that made up the cellars walls. Sam was curled in on himself, his back facing out, visibly shaking either from the chill in the cellar or fear or both.

"S-Sam? Sammy?" Dean called his sibling's name and stepped forward, glancing over his shoulder as at dull thud announced that John had found the ladder and had settled it into position.

"Don't come down here," Dean told his father and although the older man made no reply, he did not descend the ladder either.

Returning his attention to his sibling, Dean moved forward even more, speaking louder, "Sammy!"

It was then that Sam peered over his shoulder at his Dean.

The twenty-two year old stopped in his tracks, mouth open in shock.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Dean literally felt all the blood drain out of his limbs and into his heart, giving the muscle the liquid boost it needed to begin to beat rapidly.

"Sammy," Dean choked out, tears stinging his eyes as he gazed at his brother.

His younger sibling was almost unrecognizable beneath his injuries.

Dean felt anger swell up in his belly like a tsunami and he wanted nothing more than to beat Eli Flint to death with his bare hands. Unfortunately, the son of a bitch was already dead so Dean had to settle for being there for his brother.

The twenty-two year old smiled sadly at his sibling and moved forward slowly, giving the younger man a visual once-over.

Even before Dean had reached Sam's side, he could feel the heat coming off his brother in waves and knew without a doubt his sibling was very ill.

Sam's fever-dulled eyes followed Dean as he approached, suspicion clouding their mossy depths.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured comfortingly, "Flint can't hurt you anymore."

The twenty-two year old kept the smile plastered on his face, despite the fact that he felt like crying, and knelt down beside his sibling.

Sam's eyes met Dean's for a moment and the older sibling saw a flash of that familiar love the the eighteen-year old only reserved for him crowd out the wariness before they rolled upwards and the younger man collapsed.

"Dad!" Dean snapped, "Dad! I'm going to need your help!"

"What's wrong? Is Sam down there? Is he alright?" John called back but Dean ignored him.

Rising into a crouch, the young man reached down and bundled his unconscious brother into a fireman's carry.

As he straightened to his full height, Dean was shocked at how light his sibling was. The older brother was certain that if he had attempted to lift his sibling in this manner four weeks ago he wouldn't have been able to do so easily.

Dean grimaced as the heat pouring off his brother caused sweat to bead on the back of his neck and face.

Walking slowly, the young hunter reached the bottom of the ladder and peered up through the trapdoor.

John looked down at him and Dean saw an expression of shock and guilt cross the older man's features as he caught sight of his youngest son.

"He's out cold," Dean ground out, "I'm gonna need you to pull him up once I get close enough."

John nodded silently, his dark brown eyes saddened.

Dean kept one hand on his brother to steady him and prevent Sam from falling, his free hand going to the rungs of the ladder as he began climbing.

Rung by rung, inch by inch, careful not to jostle his unconscious sibling, Dean ascended the ladder, feeling no relief when he felt John's strong arms lift Sam from his shoulders.

"Careful!" Dean snapped at his father, not ready to forget John's part in all of this as he climbed the rest of the way up the ladder, slamming the trapdoor closed after himself.

John had laid Sam out on his back on the hardwood floor of the den, his face haggard.

Dean moved to his brother's side and gently brushed Sam's bangs back from his forehead, hissing in sympathy as he once again took in the injuries on the young man's face.

The skin was red and puffy, covered with pale yellow blisters that looked painful to the touch; one of Sam's eyes was black and the other was swollen. A large gash across Sam's brow had leaked blood into his eyes but it had long since dried to a dark, rusty brown. Purple and blue bruises also marred the skin, as well as about a half-dozen small round marks that looked like burns. Sam's nose was broken and his lower lip was split open; both injuries had bled down the lower half of his face. Sam's neck, as well, was puffy red and dotted with blisters.

Dean tore his gaze away from his sibling and looked up at his father, "There's no way we can carry him all the way back to the car. We'll have to stay here until he wakes up."

John nodded and stood, "I'll see if I can find a First Aid kit."

Dean didn't answer as his father left the room, heading towards the bedroom and tiny attached bathroom.

"Oh Sammy," Dean murmured, "What did that bastard do to you?"

Carefully, Dean carded a hand through his brother's unwashed hair, noticing too late that there were blisters on Sam's scalp as well.

Tears welled up in the twenty-two year old's eyes and he clenched his hand into a fist, fighting the urge to go find John and punch him in the face.

Maybe he could still do that, but later, once he knew Sam was alright.

Footsteps announced John's return. Dean looked up to see him carrying a red and white metal case and a pile of clothes.

"I thought we could change his clothes," John explained sheepishly.

Dean nodded as his father knelt down beside him and Sam, flipping the latches of the First Aid kit up and opening the lid.

Pawing through Band-Aids and rolls of gauze, John found what he needed and took out a bottle of Tylenol pills, a tube of salve and a packet of antiseptic wipes.

Dean refused to leave his brother's side so their father stood and walked into the kitchen to wet a tea towel with water to wash Sam's face with.

With all the care of a parent, Dean unbuttoned the flannel shirt his brother was wearing, gently easing Sam's arms out of the sleeves and setting the soiled garment aside.

As soon as John returned, Dean told his father to lift Sam's upper body up so he could take the younger man's t-shirt off that he had been wearing under the long-sleeved flannel. Dean was alarmed to see that Sam's grey t-shirt was stained with a yellowish fluid that wasn't completely dried. Taking hold of the hem of the shirt, Dean rolled the garment upwards and let out a startled gasp as he revealed his sibling's abdomen.

"What is it?" John asked and looked down at his youngest son, eyes widening at the blisters dotting skin reddened and swollen, all the way down to his groin.

"What the fuck did Flint do to him?" Dean asked but John didn't respond and he didn't expect his father to answer.

"Dean," John said, his voice tight, and the older son tore his gaze away from his brother to where his father was looking. Sam had blisters all along his shoulder blades and running down his back as well. They had recently broken open and were now freely weeping clear fluid.

Dean's eyes widened and he felt a pang of guilt; laying his brother on his back had caused the blisters to burst.

"Hold him up while I get his pants," Dean ground out, not wanting to lay his sibling on his back again.

Once Dean had pulled Sam's t-shirt over his head, John kept his hold on his youngest son, hands hooked beneath the teen's armpits as the twenty-two year old moved down to Sam's feet. Reaching out, Dean unbuttoned and unzipped his brother's jeans before grabbing them by the ends of the legs and slowly pulling them down.

Dean clenched his jaw in anger when Sam's legs were exposed and he saw even more blisters. He noticed that the bubbled skin seemed to be concentrated in the area of Sam's lower abdomen and upper leg areas, the blisters thinning out along his sibling's chest and lower legs.

"It…" John paused, "It looks like he's been scalded."

Dean looked up sharply at his father, "How do you know?"

"I was about five… almost six and I was trying to make some soup for dinner because my mother was working late and the babysitter was asleep on the couch. I pushed a chair to the counter and managed to open the can, dump it into a pot and turned the gas stove on. I turned it on too high and the soup started boiling over onto the stovetop. I thought I would get in trouble so I tried to pick the pot up… It was too hot and I dropped it onto the floor but I splashed my arm with the soup. My skin looked just like Sam's for a few weeks afterwards."

Dean stared hard at his father for a long moment before peering over his shoulder at the kitchen.

"Those're infected," John said, drawing Dean's attention back to his brother.

Most of the blisters on Sam's lower abdomen, close to the waistband of his boxers, had broken open and had wept yellowish pus, the skin around them red and cracked.

No wonder Sam's got a fever, Dean thought.

Without looking at John, the twenty-two year old grabbed the damp tea towel his father had brought and began gently wiping at the blood on Sam's face.

Dean moved his hand as gently as possible, afraid of hurting his brother, as he cleaned the dried blood away from the laceration across Sam's forehead.

"Is there tape in there?" Dean asked, indicating the First Aid kit and John nodded, finding a roll of medical tape and handing it to his son.

Carefully, Dean pinched the two sides of the cut together as much as he could with the thumb and forefinger of one hand and tore off a few pieces of tape with the other, placing them across the gash.

Setting the tape down, Dean picked up the towel again and continued his ministrations.

"Do you…" Dean hesitated, "Do you think the blisters will scar?"

"I don't know," John answered, "They shouldn't but…"

He left the last words unsaid and Dean nodded.

What concerned the twenty-two year old were the small, round burns dotting his brother's face.

Carefully, Dean wiped dried blood away from Sam's broken nose and was surprised when his brother let out a soft groan, his eyes fluttering.

"Sam?" Dean said, lowering the towel, "Sammy? Can you hear me? Are you with me?"

The teen's eyes opened partway and Dean could see they were glassy with fever.

Glancing around, Dean instructed his father to fetch a glass of water.

The twenty-two year old reached out and slipped his hands beneath his brother's armpits as John released his youngest son and hurried into the kitchen.

"Sammy?" Dean murmured, "Hey, Sammy? You with me?"

The teen blinked sluggishly and let out another groan.

Dean looked up to see what John was doing and he spied his father throwing open cupboard doors until he found the one he wanted. Glass in hand, the eldest Winchester moved to the sink, turning the tap on full blast, letting the icy water jet into the cup.

Twisting the tap off distractedly, John returned to his sons' side and handed Dean the glass of water.

Dean reluctantly relinquished his hold on Sam back over to John so he could open the bottle of Tylenol and administer the medicine.

"Sam? Sammy," Dean said a little louder than before, "Hey, c'mon, stay with me for a moment here."

Shaking two of the round, red pills onto his palm Dean brought his hand to his brother's mouth.

Sam was still far too ill to take the medicine himself so Dean carefully pressed the Tylenol pills into his mouth, just as he used to do when his brother had been a toddler and would refuse to take any medication.

Once the pills were inside Sam's mouth, Dean quickly lifted the glass of water to his brother's lips and tilted it so that the liquid would hopefully encourage the eighteen-year old to swallow.

For a moment, nothing happened and Dean was alarmed to see water dripping out of the corners of his brother's mouth, concerned Sam would start to choke when a second later the teen began to gulp down the water eagerly.

Once the glass was empty, Dean set it down continued the car of his brother.

He finished wiping the blood from Sam's face before turning his attention to his brother's abdomen and the infected blisters.

Tearing open the packet of antiseptic wipes, Dean gently began to wipe the infected area, grimacing in sympathy. Once he'd cleaned Sam's abdomen, Dean wiped the blisters on his brother's back. Deciding against redressing his brother, Dean finished his care for the moment and addressed the eldest Winchester.

"Help me take him to the bedroom," the twenty-two year old spoke to his father curtly and John nodded, lifting Sam up by the armpits. Dean took hold of his brother's legs at the ankles and working as a team for the moment, father and son moved the youngest member of their family into the cabin's single bedroom.

Gently, John and Dean laid Sam down on top of the blankets, laying the teen down on his side.

John stood back for a moment as Dean sat down on the edge of the mattress, his back towards him.

"I… uh…" the father hesitated, feeling like an outsider, "I'm going to see if I can bring the Impala around."

Dean didn't respond so John left quietly.

SPN

John Winchester walked out of the bedroom, fraught with conflicting emotions.

His hands and heart were clenched as he entered the cabin's kitchen. He couldn't believe what Flint had done to his son; tortured him!

John had expected- erroneously and naively- Flint to talk to Sam, remind him why hunting was worthwhile, all the innocent people who could be saved… and instead the bastard had hurt him.

The eldest Winchester paused to gaze for a moment at the hunter's body, a sneer twisting his features.

John stormed out of the cabin, letting the door slam behind him as he headed back the way he and Dean had come.

On the other hand, Eli Flint had done as he had promised. In a roundabout way, he had prevented Sam from going to school. After four weeks and what may be many more to allow for recovery, Sam would probably not be going to college, just as his father had wanted.

SPN

Dean couldn't take his eyes off his brother's battered face. He knew it was foolish but all he wanted to do was hug Sam, kiss his injuries and make them better, just as he'd been able to do when his brother had been little and had a scraped knee or bruised elbow.

"I- I'm s-sorry, Sammy," Dean murmured, tears welling up in his hazel eyes once again, "I… I'm so sorry."

Carefully, Dean reached out and took one of Sam's hands in his own, waiting patiently for his brother to wake up.

W

A faint groan alerted Dean to the fact that his brother might be waking.

Leaning forward, the twenty-two year old gently squeezed his brother's hand.

"Sammy, hey, Sammy," Dean murmured and rubbed his sibling's knuckles with his thumb, "You with me?"

"Nuhhh," the eighteen-year old groaned quietly and his eyes fluttered open.

"Sammy," Dean called again and his brother's eyes darted around the room for a moment before landing on him.

"S-Sammy," the older brother said, his eyes welling up with tears.

"D'n…" Sam mumbled and struggled to sit up.

"Here, let me," Dean reached out and helped his brother sit.

"D'n," Sam repeated before swallowing thickly, "W-Why? W-what did I e-ever do to you?"

Dean, a moment ago so happy to see his brother awake, frowned.

"G-Get away from m-me! L-Leave m-me alone!" Sam cried out suddenly, his eyes glazed with fever, pulling away from his brother.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, grabbing the teen's wrists and holding them still, "Sam, it's okay! It's just me!"

"Its just me," the twenty-two year old whispered, the meaning of Sam's words hitting him like a ton of bricks.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, then spoke louder, "Look at me, Sammy."

Reluctantly the eighteen year old stopped fighting and turned his gaze to his brother.

"It wasn't me," Dean assured him, "I promise you. It wasn't me. I didn't have anything to do with Flint. I didn't even know about him until twenty-four hours ago."

Sam appeared to be listening- or at least he wasn't struggling anymore- so Dean continued, not sure how much was getting through to his brother's fever-addled brain. He hoped that the Tylenol had done its job and his brother's temperature had tone down some.

"I was so proud… so proud when you told me about Stanford," Dean continued, "Who wouldn't be happy that their little brother had gotten into one of the best schools in the country?"

"You'd been talking about college ever since junior high," Dean kept speaking, "It was your dream to go."

The twenty-two year old wiped no-so-surreptitiously at his eyes, "I'd never take that away from you."

Sam stared at him for a long moment, as though trying to gauge the truth in Dean's words. After a minute or so, the teen seemed to believe Dean's innocence and he nodded.

"And Dad?"

The hope in those two words almost broke Dean's heart. He knew what Sam wanted him to say: No, Sammy, of course, not. Dad had nothing to do with this. Flint found out about you all by himself and did those horrible things to you because he was crazy.

But Dean couldn't lie to his brother, not even to spare him to pain of knowing their father had a hand in Sam's torture, if only because he had been the one to deliver him right to his sibling's tormentor.

Sighing, Dean shook his head and looked away from his brother.

Sam pulled his hands free of Dean's slackened grip and when the twenty-two year old looked at him again, the teen's face was crumpled though he did not cry.

"Why don't you lay down and get some rest, Sammy?" Dean murmured half-heartedly.

Without responding, Sam allowed his sibling to help him onto his side and closed his eyes, his breathing quickly becoming slow and steady with sleep.

W

Hands clenched into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms; Dean stalked his way into the kitchen and turned on Flint's corpse still sitting at the table.

"You fucking bastard!" Dean shouted, grabbing the dead man by the front of his shirt, "You son of a bitch! What did you do to him? Huh? What the fuck did you do to my brother?"

Dean shook the corpse so hard that a glob of brain matter fell out from the hunter's exposed cranium and landed on the floor behind him with a wet plop.

The twenty-two year old shoved the man away and lurched to the kitchen sink, retching.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Dean trudged back towards the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed once again, leaning forward when Sam moaned in his sleep.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmured and gently touched his brother's hair, careful not to press down hard and risk bursting the blisters on his scalp, "It's okay. You're safe now. I'm not going to let anyone ever hurt you again."

After a moment, the teen quieted down once again into a peaceful sleep and Dean relaxed.

SPN

It was almost dark by time John pulled the Impala in beside Flint's silver T-Bird. He didn't immediately get out of the vehicle but sat in the driver's seat, wondering if Sam had woken up yet.

Slowly, John exited the Chevy and climbed the porch steps.

He opened the door quietly and stood still for a moment before his gaze lit upon Flint's body.

Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, John knew that they couldn't stay for much longer with a corpse only a few feet away from them.

SPN

Dean's body tensed with anticipation when he heard the familiar growl of the Impala's engine- even from the back bedroom- and the cabin door slam shut after his father.

The twenty-two year old kept his eyes on his brother, afraid of what he might do if John decided to show his face at that moment.

Instead, it seemed as though their father had other plans and Dean heard the sound of John moving a heavy object around in the front of the cabin.

Sam groaned again in his sleep and Dean quickly soothed him, assuring his brother that he was safe.

The older sibling listened intently as the sounds faded from the front of the cabin and he knew that once again they were alone.

Dean knew that Sam's reunion with John was not going to be a happy one- at all- and he wanted to prevent that eventual meeting for as long as possible. He was torn between letting John and Sam interact- he knew that their father did feel guilty about what had happened- and taking the Impala and getting his brother the hell away from the man.

Sighing, Dean raked a hand through his short-cropped hair. He decided he would wait and see what Sam wanted.

W

"Dean."

The twenty-two year groaned but did not wake.

"Dean."

John's older son blinked and sat up, realizing that he had fallen asleep, slumped where he sat.

Gaze instantly falling on his brother; Dean saw that Sam wasn't looking at him but behind him.

Peering over his shoulder, Dean saw that their father was standing in the bedroom doorway.

Dean's hackles rose instantly but John ignored him as he stepped forward.

"Sam," John said quietly.

Turning back to his sibling, Dean saw a hurt look on his brother's face.

"Sammy-" Dean began but John interrupted.

"I'm glad you're awake."

The teen made no response.

"What do you want?" Dean snapped angrily.

John's expression darkened, "I have a right to see Sam if I want to, Dean! I'm his father, not you!"

The twenty-two year old stood up quickly, hands forming into fists.

"You lost that right when you decided to hand him over to some nutjob because you didn't want him to have a different life than what you saw fit!"

John moved forward and Dean made to rush forward to meet him when he felt a hot, clammy hand clamp in a vice-like grip around his arm.

The twenty-two year old peered over his shoulder at his brother and stared right into Sam's large, damp eyes.

Despite the fact that he wanted to punch John's lights out, Dean didn't want to upset his brother.

Slowly, the twenty-two year old unclenched his hands and sat back down on the mattress.

He watched warily as John approached and stood at the foot of the bed.

"How are you feeling?" their father asked quietly, hesitantly.

Sam didn't answer so Dean spoke for him.

"Better. His fever's gone down a bit."

John nodded, "Son, I… I just want you to know that… whatever Flint did… I didn't know he would do that-"

"What did he do, Sam? Why don't you tell Dad?" Dean asked, his anger at his father making him short with his brother.

Sam gazed at his brother, his puppy-eyes in full force.

Dean turned away from his brother and back to their father, glaring at the man.

"Tell him, Sammy," the twenty-two year old insisted, "Tell Dad what he helped Flint do."


	12. Chapter Twelve

Sam took a deep, shaky breath and passed a hand over his eyes.

Dean suddenly regretted pressuring his brother.

"Maybe… maybe we can talk about this later," he suggested, "You still need some rest. Hey, I'll get you another Tylenol and you'll sleep like a-"

"N-No," Sam protested, "Y-You both should know."

Dean nodded, "Okay, Sammy, if that's what you want."

Sam nodded once and looked from Dean to John and back again.

Slowly, the eighteen-year old began to talk about the torture he'd experienced at Eli Flint's hand.

"At… at first he wouldn't give me much water or food," Sam began quietly, "Just enough so that I wouldn't starve."

Dean quickly looked up at John's expression and saw that their father was frowning, his brown eyes even darker than usual.

"Then he set up those lights… and the music," Sam continued, "So that I wouldn't be a-able to get m-much sleep."

"Music?" Dean asked, interrupting his brother.

"Yeah," the teen muttered, "I- I don't know how often he set it to play b-but I would barely be asleep and it'd s-start."

"Did he start…hurting you?" John asked hesitantly.

Sam shook his head, "N-Not a first."

"Keep going, Sammy," Dean encouraged solemnly.

After a long moment's pause, Sam spoke again.

"He kept trying to convince me to hunt and… and I wouldn't agree t-to give up school."

To Dean it seemed as though his brother's eyes glazed over as he spoke.

"He… I don't know what changed but he…" Sam spoke quieter and quieter so that Dean and John had to strain to hear, "One day he boiled the k-kettle and p-p-poured the water…"

Dean reached out and touched his brother's hand, trying to show his support.

"He b-burnt my face…" Sam said, raising his free hand to his left cheek, "…With a cigarette."

Dean saw what a toll this was taking on his brother; Sam's shoulders slumped, his eyes were glassy and his face was pale beneath the burns.

"That's enough for tonight," Dean said, speaking to both his father and brother, "Sam needs to sleep."

"Flint's dead, isn't he?" the teen asked, looking at his family members, "I heard a gunshot and… He killed himself, right?"

Dean nodded, "The coward's way out."

Instead of succumbing to the exhaustion he clearly felt, Sam turned his emerald eyes to his father.

"Why? Why couldn't you let me go to school? I wasn't going to abandon you."

John's expression darkened, "You wouldn't understand."

"Sam," Dean said, not wanting his brother to overtax himself.

"What wouldn't I understand?" Sam asked, his voice rising.

"Do you not care at all about finding the monster who killed your mother? Do you not care about getting revenge on the bastard who took her away from you? You didn't even get to meet her before she died!" John exclaimed, his dark expression now turning red.

"It wouldn't bring her back!" Sam replied, quickly becoming emotional.

John looked shocked at his youngest son's outburst and Dean quickly stood up between his father and brother.

"Out," Dean snarled, "Get out. Now."

John turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Dean sank back down on the bed and turned to his brother.

"Sammy-" he began but his sibling interrupted him.

"I… I thought he wanted me to go to school," Sam said, his voice shaking, "I th-thought he was ha-happy for me… proud of m-me… like you were."

Dean watched as tears overflowed the teen's eyes and began to flow down his face.

The twenty-two year old had nothing to say about John's behaviour. He could only shake his head, "I'm sorry, Sammy."

The eighteen-year old lowered his head.

"Why don't you go to sleep? You'll feel better in the morning," Dean suggested and Sam nodded, lying on his side with his brother's assistance.

SPN

John stomped away from his sons, anger turning his vision red.

Sam didn't know what he was talking about. He didn't understand why they needed to find the bastard who'd killed Mary and destroy it. Sam didn't understand… and John hoped he never would.

The father made his way into the cabin's small kitchen, pulling out the same chair his youngest son had so often been cuffed to as Flint badgered and tortured him, and sat down.

Raking a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, John sighed, thinking about his youngest son. He was the only one- besides one old psychic woman in Lawrence, Kansas- who knew why Mary had died that fateful night.

The monster who had invaded the Winchester home hadn't come for John's wife, no, she had just been collateral damage. His intended target had been the infant Sam.

Upon visiting Missouri Moseley a few weeks after his wife's untimely death, John had found out the truth about Mary's killer and what he wanted with their son.

Even though both Sam and Dean had been in the room with them as Missouri told John what had really happened the night of November second, the youngest Winchester had been fast asleep in his father's arms and Dean had been too young to truly understand what the adults were talking about- a large plate of sugar cookies and cartoons on the television also helped to distract the four-year old as well.

Missouri hadn't been able to tell John everything, but she'd been able to tell him enough.

The monster that had murdered John's wife had been a demon, a very powerful one, something the father had until a little over four weeks ago didn't believe existed.

Holding the infant Sam in her arms, Missouri had been able to tell John that the monster, the demon had infected the baby with its blood. The psychic could sense the evil pulsing through the child's veins along with his human blood.

John, horrified at the revelation, had demanded to know what he could do, how he could fix his son.

Missouri, still cradling the baby, had shaken her head and told John that there was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do.

They didn't know why Sam had been chosen or for what purpose.

Missouri's words floated back to the hunter as he sat at the kitchen table, as clear as though she were sitting right in front of him:

I can't tell you how the demon blood's gonna affect your boy. All I can do is advise you to raise the child to be good but keep a close eye on him. I don't want to be all doom and gloom but that demon blood may be trouble some day. Then again… the child may surprise you.

Missouri hadn't wanted to give John all bad news but unfortunately, that was all the hunter could think about. He had kept this secret for seventeen years, the only Winchester who knew what exactly was running through his youngest son's veins.

John had tried to raise Sam- and Dean- to have character, to be courageous, loyal, determined, and strong.

And to tell the truth, the hunter had no red flags warning him that his youngest son might be giving in to the demon blood running through his veins. Sure, once Sam hit puberty, it seemed as though he wanted to argue and butt heads with John about everything but the father had been exactly the same way with his mother when he'd been that age.

With Sam close by, John was able to watch him, to watch out for him but when he'd announced his intended to move thousands of miles away for college, the hunter had panicked. If Sam was in California, at Stanford, John couldn't keep an eye on him, something might happen to him, either as a result of the monsters that prowled the darkness or the demon blood.

If his youngest son insisted on staying so far away, John wouldn't be able to protect him, or, God forbid, stop him if he needed to do so.

John had tried to drive the desire to help innocent people into both his sons, especially Sam, in the hopes of creating a sense of compassion that would override the darkness in his boy. The father feared that if Sam stopped hunting, stopped saving people and destroying monsters, that it would unleash the monster within him.

But there was no way the eldest Winchester could tell all of this to his boys. They wouldn't understand and John had no idea how they would react to the news.

John had never intended for Sam to get hurt. He'd just wanted Flint to talk with Sam, convince him in a way that he as the teen's father couldn't, that hunting was worthwhile and needed to be done, that although it was often a thankless job, it was more important to the eighteen-year old than he knew.

The eldest Winchester looked up as Dean stepped into the kitchen.

"You thinking about what you did to Sammy?" his eldest son asked coldly.

John stared blankly at his son.

Dean sneered, "You've been sitting out here for two hours."

The hunter's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't known that much time had passed since he'd left his sons alone. He didn't speak to Dean as the young man began to search through the kitchen cupboards.

After a few minutes, the twenty-two year old had a saucer on the counter and was shaking a box of soda crackers over it.

"How's Sammy doing?" John asked cautiously.

Dean answered without turning around, "He's asleep."

"That for him?" John spoke again, indicating the crackers.

"He needs to eat something," Dean answered curtly.

Peering into the cupboards again, the young hunter found a can of vegetable soup with alphabet noodles. Opening the can with a hand-held opener found in one of the drawers, Dean dumped the soup into a pot from a lower cupboard and set it on the stove, turning up the gas.

"How much longer do you want to stay?" John asked.

"If Sammy's fever's still under control," Dean began, staring at the soup instead of his father, "I'd like to get out of here tomorrow morning."

John nodded even though his son couldn't see him and didn't speak again to his eldest.

Dean stood tensely, hands gripping the front of the oven.

"You got rid of Flint," he ground out.

"Yeah," John answered, "Couldn't leave him in here like that."

"Gave him a hunter's funeral?"

John nodded before answering, "He was still a hunter, even after what he did to Sam."

The father saw his son's knuckles go white against the enamel finish on the front of the oven.

"Burning the body prevents animals from finding it, as well," John reminded his son, "And the dead from coming back."

"Yeah," Dean said, sarcasm strong in his voice, "That's the last thing Sammy needs right now."

John didn't rise to Dean's bait, as he may have if it had been his youngest who had spoken.

Once the soup was boiling, Dean poured a small amount into a bowl, gathering up the saucer and crackers and snatching a spoon from a drawer before leaving the kitchen without another word.

SPN

Dean wanted to let his brother sleep longer but he knew Sam needed to eat.

Entering the bedroom quietly, Dean set the bowl of soup and saucer of crackers down beside the door before approaching the bed.

"Sammy, wake up man," he murmured and gently touched his brother's hand.

The teen blinked and rolled his eyes upwards.

"I brought you something to eat," Dean told him and Sam sat up slowly.

"Is Dad still here?"

Dean nodded before turning to gather the food he had brought his sibling. Taking the saucer and bowl over to Sam, the older Winchester sat down on the edge of the bed.

"You got it?" Dean asked and Sam nodded, carefully taking the bowl in his hands.

For a long moment Dean watched as his brother stared down at the soup before he spoke again.

"Too hot?"

Sam nodded.

Dean took the bowl and handed him the saucer of soda crackers instead.

"Why don't you have some of these while the soup cools?" Dean suggested and Sam began eating the crackers.

While Sam made short work of the crackers, Dean stirred the soup around, gently blowing on it to help it cool faster, just as he used to do when Sammy had been little.

"Are you feeling better?" Dean asked as his sibling ate.

"Yeah," the teen muttered.

"I want to check out those blisters again," Dean told him, "Make sure they're not getting worse."

Sam didn't respond.

"How long are we staying here?"

Dean met his brother's gaze, "I'd like to get out of here tomorrow in the a.m. if you're feeling up to a car ride."

Sam nodded, "I don't want to stay here anymore."

"We won't go far," the twenty-two year old assured him, "First bit of civilization we see, we'll stop."

Sam had finished the soda crackers so Dean handed him the bowl of vegetable soup, taking the saucer from the teen.

"What's going to happen after?" the eighteen-year old asked and Dean frowned at the question.

"What do you mean?" the young man asked.

"When we leave… what's going to happen to… to me?"

Dean frowned, "All you have to do is focus on getting better, Sammy. Don't worry about anything else."

Sam spooned some soup up and ate it, suddenly quiet.

"What," the older brother hesitated, "What do you want to do?"

Flint had been hired by their father to push Sam back into hunting, to write college off as a frivolous dream, and Dean wanted to know at that moment, if the bastard had actually managed to wheedle his way into his brother's head.

The eighteen-year old didn't answer right away.

"Sam," Dean said, "What do you want to do?"

"I'm full," the teen ignored the question and offered the mostly-full bowl of soup to Dean.

"Sammy," the twenty-two year old said but the younger sibling refused to answer.

"I'm kind of tired, Dean," he muttered and laid down on his side.

The older brother remained where he was, holding the saucer and bowl, at a loss for words.

Sighing, Dean stood and left the room, returning to the kitchen to dump the soup into the sink without rinsing the noodles or veggies down the drain and set the saucer and bowl on the counter unceremoniously.

He barely noticed that John was no longer in the cabin anymore.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

After Dean brought the dishes into the cabin's kitchen, he heeded the call of sleep and climbed onto the couch in the den to close his eyes for a while and get some much needed- and deserved, in his opinion- rest.

He didn't know where his father was and he really didn't care as long as John didn't drive off with the Impala.

Eyelids slipping shut, Dean didn't notice his father open the cabin's front door and step inside.

SPN

Sam lay in bed but he didn't sleep.

He'd told Dean he was tired and although that wasn't a lie, he just wanted to be alone at the moment.

Shifting ever so slightly, wincing in pain, the teen closed his eyes.

He thought about his brother's question- what did he want to do- and knew that Dean wouldn't like the answer.

Sam had wanted to go away to college so badly- and he still did- but he knew that now it wasn't likely he'd be able to. It had been weeks since the beginning of the school year had started and even if Sam could come up with some explanation for his absences, he would struggle to catch up on the workload. On top of that, Sam still felt like shit and he didn't know how long it would take until he didn't. He didn't want to give up the dream of going to college but it seemed that it would have to be put on hold until further notice.

Sam felt tears well up in his eyes again but he quickly blinked them away.

Suddenly, his attention was drawn to the bedroom door as it opened slowly.

"Dean?" Sam called, wondering why his brother was coming back when Dean should think he was asleep.

It wasn't his sibling, though, who stepped into the room. It was John.

"Dad," Sam said without emotion.

He sat up in bed slowly, cringing in pain.

"How are you feeling?" his father asked, making his way slowly towards the bed.

"How do you think I'm feeling?" Sam asked bitterly.

John frowned and sighed, "Stupid question, I guess."

Sam watched his father warily as John took a seat on the edge of the mattress and the eighteen-year old abruptly felt cornered, boxed-in, trapped.

"I…Uh…" John stammered for a moment before blowing out a noisy breath, "I'm never this tongue-tied."

Sam didn't say anything. He leaned back ever so slightly, his body language clearly showing that he didn't want the older man so close to him.

"I just wanted to check in on you," his father explained, "Make sure those infected blisters aren't getting worse."

"Dean already checked," Sam lied poorly and although John clearly knew that, he didn't insist on giving his son an once-over anyway.

The eldest Winchester said nothing for a long moment so Sam forced himself to speak.

"What do you want?"

"I didn't know he was going to do that to you," John said, not specifically calling Flint by name but Sam who his father was talking about, "I thought he was just going to talk to you, that's all."

Sam didn't say anything. It was all well and good for John to say that now he didn't expect Flint to resort to torture to try and bring Sam back to the flock but his father wasn't stupid, he could have asked Flint about his methods, what he'd planned to do.

"It's a little too late for that now, Dad," the teen muttered.

"Sam," John said and the eighteen-year old looked up at his father.

His Dad's face looked more haggard than usual; his beard looked as though it was greyer than it was black, his brown eyes were moist and had dark circles beneath them.

"What was so wrong with me going away to college?" Sam asked quietly, whispering, his heart beating in anticipation, "Why couldn't you let me go?"

His father sighed and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

"Is it because Dean didn't go? Is it because you joined the Marines right out of high school?"

John shook his head, to Sam's surprise. He'd thought that going to college wasn't important to his father. John had never had a post-secondary education, getting a job at an auto shop when he'd returned from Vietnam. Dean hadn't even completed high school, instead deciding to drop out as soon as he was old enough.

"What… What Dean and I did has nothing to do with you going to Stanford," John said, "We made our own decisions."

"Then why couldn't you let me make mine?" Sam exclaimed, "Why couldn't you let me decide what was best for me!"

"Because…" John hesitated, "You wouldn't understand…"

"What wouldn't I understand? Tell me why! Dad, I'm not a little kid anymore! Not everything's on a need-to-know basis!"

Sam's father paused before sighing and clasping his hands in front of him. Sam waited anxiously, feeling as though John was going to tell him something very important.

"It's about your mother," John began, "The night she died, yo-"

The bedroom door slammed open and Dean stood silhouetted in the frame.

"Sammy," he said, his voice coloured with concern.

"I'm fine, Dean," the teen insisted but his brother ignored him and approached, eyeing their father warily.

Dean made it to the bed and standing right beside John, reached out and held his palm inches away from Sam's brow.

Frowning, he turned to their father, "Sam's hot again."

"Dean," Sam argued, pushing his brother's hand away, "I feel fine."

Sam was lying again and he knew Dean would see right through it.

"Get out, Dad," Dean growled, not even looking at him, "You've already done enough."

"Dean," Sam and John said in unison but the twenty-two year old would not be swayed.

John stood up from the bed and retreated from the room, closing the door quietly after himself.

Sam turned his eyes on his brother. Now that their father was out of the room and Sam's emotions were calming, he was beginning to feel shitty.

"I'll get you some Tylenol to help you sleep," Dean told him and left the room as well.

Sam closed his eyes and wondered what his father had just been about to tell him about the night Mom died and why that had anything to do with going to college.

Dean returned with the promised Tylenol pill and a glass of water.

Sam took the pill and washed it down with the cool liquid inside the glass.

"Still feeling up to getting out of here in the morning?" Dean asked and Sam nodded.

The eighteen-year old lay down on his side. Dean smiled at him and Sam closed his eyes, noticing that his brother remained seated on the edge of the bed and guessed that he would stay there all night.

SPN

Before the sun had even begun to rise, Dean was awake and was checking Sam over.

The twenty-two year old started by carefully pulling the tape off the gash across his brother's forehead; now a bright red line as the two sides of the cut began to heal together nicely. Dean couldn't help but smile at his brother, glad his brother hadn't needed any sutures though he was sure the laceration was going to scar.

"How's your nose feeling?" Dean asked and Sam shrugged, "Sore."

The older brother nodded before turning his attention to the blisters. He knew that the majority would heal on their own but the ones that were infected worried him a bit.

Tearing open a packet of antiseptic wipes, Dean began cleaning the infected blisters on his brother's lower abdomen, cringing in sympathy as Sam winced in pain.

"Sorry," Dean apologized and his brother nodded once.

"Last night," Sam began to mutter and Dean looked up, curious, "Dad said that reason that he didn't want me going to school was something to do with the night Mom died."

Dean's head shot up and he narrowed his eyes at his brother, "Mom? What did he say?"

The twenty-two old paused in his ministrations to peer suspiciously at his brother.

"What's Mom got to do with anything?" Dean asked in an accusatory tone.

Sam glanced away and Dean sighed, "Did he tell you anything?"

"No," the teen muttered.

Dean sat back. He didn't know why their father would bring Mom into this but it was starting to piss him off. It seemed like John was willing to say anything to take the blame off himself for what he'd done to Sam.

"Dad's just trying to guilt you about school," Dean told his brother, "Still."

Sam stared at him for a long moment, "I don't think so."

Dean frowned at his sibling.

"He seemed really serious," the eighteen-year old insisted.

"Whatever, Sam," Dean muttered, tossing the used antiseptic wipe into the trash.

Dean didn't know what their father was playing at but it was really starting to make him angry.

Standing up, the young man stood and left the bedroom. Making his way into the main part of the cabin, he spied his father seated at the kitchen table, cup of coffee in his hands.

"What did you say to Sam?"

John peered up at him, confused.

"Huh?"

"Last night," Dean elaborated, "What did you say to Sam about Mom?"

John's expression turned to one of realization but then he cleared his throat and spoke, "I didn't mention Mary."

Dean eyed his father suspiciously, "Why did he tell me you did?"

"You said he had a fever again, last night, Dean," John replied, "Maybe he thought I'd said something about your mother."

Dean stared at his father for a moment before speaking again.

"As soon as I get some breakfast into Sam we're leaving," Dean told John, "With or without you."

SPN

John lifted his gaze and peered at his youngest son through the Impala's rearview mirror.

Sam sat forward on the Chevy's backseat, still only clad in his boxer shorts because any more clothing would chafe against the blisters.

Dean sat in the front passenger's seat; arms crossed over his chest, looking as though he wished John had opted to stay.

The eldest Winchester pulled the Impala out of the driveway, Flint's cabin growing smaller until it vanished behind a screen of tree branches.

It didn't matter at the moment where they went, as long as they left the area. John would drive until they came upon a town or city, then stop for a day or so before moving on again.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

The Winchesters drove as far as the town of Gilchrist, Oregon, before stopping. John pulled the Impala into the parking lot of the Main Street Motel, which was in fact on the corner of Apple Grove Avenue and Victoria Street.

Sam and Dean remained in the car while John went into the office to get a room for all of them.

Peering over the back of his seat, Dean addressed his brother.

"How're you feeling?"

Sam looked tired and a bit sick. His skin was pale beneath the blisters and his eyes had taken on a glassy sheen again.

"Aw Sammy," Dean murmured, his heart going out to his brother.

It was clear that a handful of Tylenol wasn't going to break Sam's fever permanently, and Dean was instantly concerned that they were looking forward to a hospital stay in the near future.

"Hang on," Dean told his sibling, "Dad will be back in a minute with the room keys."

Sam nodded slightly, his green eyes half-closed.

Dean quickly gave his sibling a visual once-over as they waited. Besides the mending cut across Sam's brow, the blisters on his face, although they didn't appear to be infected, still looked painful. The burns from Flint's cigarette were red and angry and worrisome.

The twenty-two year old looked up as John opened the driver's side door and sat down.

"Sam's not feeling well again," Dean informed their father and John peered over his shoulder at his youngest son, frowning.

Putting the car in drive, John wound his way through the parking lot towards their rented room.

"Why don't you get Sam settled," the eldest Winchester suggested, "I'll get us something to eat."

Dean hesitated before taking the room key from his father and exiting the Impala. Closing his door, the young man opened the Chevy's back door and took hold of his brother's wrist gently.

"C'mon Sammy," he murmured, "Let's get you settled in."

The teenager followed his brother obediently without complaint; a testament to how bad he was feeling at the moment. Pausing to grab his duffel bag and their own First Aid kit- supplemented with a few things from Flint's- Dean led his brother towards the motel room as John pulled away.

With his free hand, Dean unlocked the motel room door and stepped inside. Glancing around, the young man noticed that the room was a bit nicer than the ones they unusually stayed in. The carpet was a plum red with a gold-leaf pattern, the walls covered in light pink, textured paper, the bed sheets a stark white covered with a crimson and yellow bedcover that Dean guessed was supposed to match the carpet. There was a television stand with a large, boxy TV and a matching desk and chair beside it. On the desk were a coffeemaker, paper cups and packets of instant coffee and teas. A small folded piece of card paper with the motel's name on the top read that their room had been cleaned by a couple of girls named Shyann and Clara.

The bathroom was tiny, with a cream-speckled linoleum floor, a tub and toilet with a sink beside. Dean noticed that there were four fluffy white towels and matching face cloths. On the faux-granite counter beside the sink was a small collection of toiletries: miniature bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and a shower cap in a cardboard package and a small, paper-wrapped bar of soap.

Dean pulled the red-and-yellow bed cover down so his brother sat on the pink duvet covering one of the two beds. Opening the First Aid kit, he found a familiar red-and-white bottle of Tylenol and an orange prescription bottle of penicillin. Smiling, knowing that the antibiotic would really help his brother fight off the infection that didn't seem to want to be kicked so easily, Dean shook a couple of Tylenol and penicillin pills each out onto the palm of his hand before grabbing one of the paper cups sitting on the desk from their plastic wrapping and filling it with water from the bathroom sink.

Returning to Sam's side, Dean offered first the pills and then the cup of water. The eighteen-year old took the medication, popped them into his mouth, then took the cup of water and drank it in three big gulps.

Dean carefully cleaned the infected blisters on Sam's abdomen before checking the ones on his brother's back. He sighed wondering when his brother's injuries would start healing; it was painful just looking at the blisters and reddened, puffy skin.

"Can I sleep?" Sam muttered, eyes half-closed.

"Yeah," Dean told him, "But when Dad comes back I want you to eat."

"Hmm," Sam mumbled as he lay down on the blankets and closed his eyes.

Dean packed the First Aid kit back up and set it on the desk before standing and stretching, raising his arm over his head. The twenty-two year old hoped that now his sibling was away from Flint's cabin, away from the cellar, that he would start recovering- at least from his physical injuries- quickly. Dean was certain that it would take longer for his brother to recover from the emotional and psychological trauma he had suffered at Eli Flint's hands.

The Impala's familiar growl announced John's return and Dean peered through the motel room window, pushing the thick, maroon curtains aside.

The twenty-two year old watched as his father exited the classic Chevy, one hand clutching a bulging take-out bag and the other balancing a cardboard drink tray.

Returning to his brother's side, Dean hated that he had to get Sam back up but he knew it was essential he eat something so he bit his lip and gently called his sibling's name.

"Sammy," Dean murmured, "Hey, Sammy, Dad's back."

The teen opened glassy eyes and blinked owlishly. At the sound of the motel room door opening, Sam raised himself weakly up on his elbows.

John glanced at both his sons as he stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind himself and holding up the food he'd bought.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean murmured and Sam struggled for a moment into a sitting position, his older brother cajoling him to the edge of the mattress.

Dean watched as John set the bag and drink tray down on the desk and began separating them. The elder Winchester handed Dean one of the drinks and the younger man popped off the plastic lid, curious as to what his father thought he'd feed Sam.

"Vanilla," John said as Dean peered at the creamy white milkshake inside the waxed paper cup.

Sam enjoyed milkshakes, so that was okay.

Next, the father passed his eldest son a paper wrapped sandwich that looked suspiciously like a hamburger- one of Sam's least favourite foods- a slightly sheepish expression on his face.

"I thought this would help him gain a bit of weight," John explained and Dean nodded as he peeled the greasy paper away from the sandwich and found that indeed it was a burger- a bacon-cheeseburger to be exact- and turned to his sibling.

Sam was already drinking the milkshake contentedly; eyes half-closed and glazed with exhaustion and fever.

Dean reached out and took hold of the shake, "Why don't you try eating a little something now?"

The eighteen-year old made an unhappy noise in his throat but allowed Dean to take the milkshake away.

"Have a few bites of this and I'll give you back the shake," the twenty-two year old bargained, handing his brother the cheeseburger on its greasy paper wrapping.

Sam stared down at the sandwich as though Dean had just given him a severed cow's head instead before looking up with wide, wet eyes.

"Take one bite," Dean instructed.

Sam may not particularly like burgers but he would eat them, if he had to.

The teen peered down at the concoction of bread and cheese and bacon and hamburger and Dean was startled when Sam suddenly turned pale.

"Sam? Sammy? You okay?" the older brother asked anxiously and pressed a palm to his sibling's brow.

"Sam," John's voice now joined Dean's, "Eat the burger."

The twenty-two year old's shoulders tensed but he didn't turn to his father.

"You've got to be hungry Sammy," Dean said, "You've had a bit of soup and crackers since we've found you."

The teen nodded once but continued to stare at the burger.

Deciding that maybe his brother would eat it in his own time, Dean finally turned his attention to his brother and accepted the Pepsi and bacon-cheeseburger John had bought for him.

Dean devoured his meal in record time, barely tasting the food since he was more concerned about his brother.

Once he was finished eating, the twenty-two year old returned his attention to his sibling.

Sam's eyes were closed and he looked as though he were about to fall backwards onto the bed at any moment.

Sighing, Dean slid the uneaten cheeseburger away from his sibling; causing Sam to open his eyes an inch and mutter something unintelligible. With one hand lightly against Sam's brow, the twenty-two year old gauged that his brother's fever was still red-hot.

Grabbing the milkshake, Dean gave it back to his brother who seemed to perk up a little bit and the young man decided that maybe Sam's stomach wasn't ready to handle bacon-cheeseburgers just yet.

Making short work of Sam's uneaten food, Dean watched with a keen eye until his sibling was finished the milkshake before tossing the empty cup in the trash and helping him lie back down in bed.

Once Sam was breathing lightly and slowly with sleep, his brother left his perch at the edge of the mattress and turned his hawk-like hazel eyes on his father.

SPN

Sam opened his eyes slowly and was not surprised to see a figure sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. He was surprised to see that the figure was not his father or brother, however, but a woman with long, blonde hair, wearing what appeared to be a white nightgown.

"M-Mom?"

The woman smiled, "Hello Sam."

Without moving, the teen rolled his eyes to take in the rest of the motel room. Night had fallen and cast the room in cool blue shadows. John lay on his stomach in the bed closest to the door, snoring like a walrus while Dean teetered on the edge of the bed beside Sam, giving the eighteen-year old as much room as possible on the mattress.

Sam's eyes returned from their wandering to gaze at his mother's face. In the darkened room her features were shadowed but the teen could tell that she was smiling, if sadly.

"Oh baby," Mary murmured and laid a cool hand against Sam's blistered cheek.

"Why? Why did Dad let this happen?" the teen asked, his eyes filling with hot tears.

Mary's blue eyes met her son's and she was just about to speak when Sam interrupted.

"Do you… Did you want me to go to college?"

"Of course I did!" his mother exclaimed, "Who wouldn't want their child to get the best education he could? John even started a college fund for you- put a hundred dollars into a savings account every month- just like he had for Dean before… well, before the fire."

"Why did that have to change?" Sam asked, his throat tightening, "Why couldn't he let me do what you'd always wanted me to?"

Mary sighed, "It's my fault."

Sam's green eyes widened in shock, "Your fault?"

The woman lowered her hand from Sam's cheek and nodded.

Mary took a deep breath and opened her mouth and began speak, "It's because of what happened the night I died. I-"

SPN

"-can't get him to wake up! Dad! He's not waking up!"

Dean ignored his brother's injuries and gripped Sam's shoulders, shaking him roughly.

It was the middle of the night and the twenty-two year old had been woken by the sound of his brother groaning in his sleep. Thinking that Sam was having a nightmare, Dean had called his name to coax him out of unconsciousness. However, when that proved futile, the young man had reached out and squeezed his brother's hand.

Again, Dean's attempt at rousing his brother was to no avail. Quickly becoming frightened, Dean's attempts became more frantic.

"Dean!" John snapped, "You'll hurt him!"

The twenty-two year old, realizing what he was doing, released his grip on his brother guiltily and was now concerned he'd caused more damage to his sibling than help.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean encouraged, "Wake up, man. You're scaring me."

As father and son watched, the youngest member of their family slowly came around. Sam's eyes fluttered and he groaned weakly. Dean automatically placed a hand against the eighteen-year old's brow and frowned when he felt it was still too warm to be healthy.

"Damn it, Sam," the older brother muttered.

"D'n?"

"Hey, Sammy," Dean leaned over his brother and smiled, "You feeling okay?"

Gingerly, the teen opened his eyes all the way and peered at the worried faces of his father and older brother as they stared out at him from the gloom.

Instead of closing his eyes and slipping back into unconsciousness, Sam struggled to sit up and he succeeded with Dean's help, gazing through the darkened room at his father.

"Something happened the night Mom died," the eighteen-year old said quietly, though with conviction, "You started talking about it and then Mom…"

Sam stopped before he went any further but Dean wasn't paying attention, he was turning to face John as well.

"You said Sam was talking nonsense because of the fever," Dean accused, "Were you lying?"

John didn't speak for a long moment and Dean wondered if he was going to say anything at all.

Then, the older man heaved a long-suffering sigh and reached out to turn on the lamp sitting on the nightstand between the two beds and a pool of golden light illuminated the remaining members of the Winchester family.

"It was my mistake," John grumbled, "Sam was asking why I'd gotten in touch with Flint, why I didn't want him to go to Stanford and-"

"What's this all have to do with Mom?" Dean snarled, not interested in his father's excuses.

John glared at his eldest son, his dark brown eyes almost black in the meager light cast by the lamp.

"I shouldn't have said anything!" he exclaimed.

"But you did and now I want to know- we both want to know- what's going on!" Dean argued.

The eldest Winchester worked his jaw and Dean was certain he was going to tell them that whatever this secret was, it was on a 'need-to-know' and that he and Sam weren't 'in the know'.

"Damn it," the hunter growled.

"The night Mary died, the demon that killed her, wasn't after her at all," John began, "She wasn't its intended target."

"Who w-" Dean began but then stopped. He turned to look at his brother, his hazel eyes wide.

"It was after Sammy," he said in a whisper, "Wasn't it?"

John nodded, "Yeah."

Dean watched as his brother's face turned an alarmingly pale shade- like spoiled milk- and he quickly grabbed Sam's hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

"What did that bastard want with Sammy? He was only a baby," the twenty-two year old asked, not taking his eyes off his brother.

"It… It poisoned your brother," John forced himself to say, "Infected Sam with its blood."

The teen's complexion had turned from white to grey.

Dean felt the blood begin to pound in his ears.

"I have no idea what this means for Sam," John continued, "I don't know if the demon blood will kill him in time or… or turn him into a demon."

"What does that have to do with Sammy going to Stanford?" Dean asked numbly. He could see his hand holding Sam's but he could not feel the appendage at all, as though it belonged to a stranger.

"I…" John took in a breath and it was decidedly shaky, "I was afraid that if Sam went away to school, was away from us then he might…"

"That I might turn evil?" the eighteen-year old offered and his father nodded silently.

"I was scared that if you weren't close by where I couldn't watch out for you-" John began but Dean interrupted.

"You wanted to make sure that you were around if Dr. Jekyll turned into Mr. Hyde."

The elder Winchester cringed at the reference.

"What were you going to do if that happened?" Dean asked.

What are you going to do if that happens?

"I…uh… I don't know… I've thought a lot about it over the years and I… I don't have an answer."

"Would you kill him?" the twenty-two year old asked, startling both his father and brother.

"Tell me," he insisted, "If Sam started to turn into a demon or go evil or whatever, would you kill him?"

"No!" John exclaimed, "I'd never do that!"

Dean heard his father's words and saw from the expression in the older man's that he was lying; that he would in fact kill Sam if he thought his son was turning into a monster.

A tight squeeze on Dean's hand brought his attention back to his brother.

"D'n," Sam murmured, "'M not ev'l."

The older brother felt tears prick his eyes, "I know you're not, Sammy. And you never will be. You don't have to worry about this. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Dean could see that the colour had returned to his brother's face and although he was slurring his speech, the twenty-two year old didn't think he was ill enough to forget this conversation.

Sam nodded, tears standing out in his eyes.

"I promise you, Sammy," Dean leaned forward and rested his brow gently against his sibling's "I won't ever let anything happen to you."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jenjoremy for all the help with this story.

Two Weeks Later

The Winchesters didn't mention the night of Mary's death or the demon blood which now ran through their youngest member's veins again. In fact, John seemed as though he had said all he could and barely spoke to his sons even though they shared the same motel room.

Sam's nagging fever broke after three days of rest, good food and penicillin, all administered under the watchful eyes of his brother. The teen's stomach, which at first hadn't been able to handle the greasy take-out food John brought back to the room, eventually recuperated from its starvation diet and Sam graduated from milkshakes and soup to pizza, burgers, and Chinese, eating them as though they were they were his favourites.

The eighteen-year old's physical injuries began mending faster as well, now that his body was getting the much-needed nutrients required to mend it. Many of the blisters that had covered most of the teen's body were almost completely healed, leaving little trace that they had even existed. The cigarette burns, however, left round, pink scars on the young man's face, which Dean insisted were not noticeable but it was clear Sam didn't believe a word of it.

The twenty-two year old wasn't concerned as much about the physical scars left by Flint's torture as the psychological damage the man had caused. Dean had tried to talk to Sam about Stanford, tentatively, never suggesting that his sibling make any decisions at the moment but saying that instead the eighteen-year old could call the college, explain why he hadn't shown up in September and maybe register for the winter semester.

Sam however, had shaken his head, and told Dean that he didn't want to talk about school.

Dean wondered how much of Flint's amateur brainwashing skills had actually gotten through to his brother and how much was hinging on their father's revelation about the night of November 2nd, 1982. The twenty-two year old didn't press his sibling, knowing that Sam wasn't in the right frame of mind to be talking about any of this anyway and that once his younger brother had made up his mind about something, he stuck to it, no matter what anyone else said.

SPN

Dean watched with his hawk-like gaze as Sam sat at the edge of the bed, Styrofoam container balanced on his knees as he cut up a stack of pancakes with a plastic knife and fork.

Sam sat with his head lowered and shoulders hunched, not talking, concentrating only on sawing the pancakes into chunks that could easily be shoved into his mouth.

Tearing his gaze away from his brother, Dean stared across the room to his father who was sitting at the desk, eating his own breakfast. Dean knew his father was eager to leave the Main Street Motel and Gilchrist, Oregon altogether; Dean could see it in the way John raked his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair more often than usual, the way he tapped his feet on the carpeted floor or always offered to go on a food-run, even when it wasn't necessary. Dean also knew that his father wasn't going to be able to take sitting in the motel room for much longer. John was nearly at his breaking point.

Sighing, Dean stabbed a piece of fried egg with his own plastic fork and tucked the morsel into his mouth before speaking.

"What do you think about getting out of here, Sammy?"

He addressed his brother because he knew what John's answer would be.

The teen shrugged, still keeping his gaze on his pancakes.

"We don't even have to have a destination," Dean continued, "We'll just drive until we find a place we like the looks of and stop for the night."

"Whatever," was Sam's reply.

A clearing of the throat drew Dean's attention back to John and sat his father now looking pointedly at him.

"We should find a case," the eldest Winchester said, making the suggestion sounding not at all like a suggestion at all but an order.

Dean scowled, "And do what? Go hunting? Now?"

John matched his son's expression, "Why not? People are still out there dying, Dean, and its our job to save them."

The twenty-two year old tore his gaze away from his father and peered at his brother.

"You're not ready to hunt again," Dean said, not only because it was true that his brother was not well enough to hunt anything but because Sam did not want to hunt.

"We can't keep sitting around like this," John continued, "Not when there are innocent people in danger. I'm sorry."

Dean looked sharply at his father, "Sam's not ready yet."

"He can stay in the motel while we work, rest up until he's ready," the eldest Winchester suggested.

Dean stood up so quickly that his breakfast fell onto the carpeted floor but he ignored it, taking a step closer to his father.

"Sam doesn't want to hunt," he growled, "You know that! That's why he applied to college in the first place!"

John glared daggers at his eldest son, "I don't know what you expect me to say, Dean. We have to keep moving. We have a job to do. Don't you want to find the bastard who killed Mary and poisoned your brother?"

It was the first time John had mentioned that fateful November night since revealing his reason for not wanting Sam to attend Stanford University.

Dean flinched as though his father had hit him and sat back down beside his brother. John, asshole that he may be, was right. He did want to find the monster that had torn their family apart and hurt his baby brother.

But his concern for his eighteen-year old sibling eclipsed his desire for revenge.

Sam was now looking up from his pancakes, a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face; from the mention of the demon or the fact that John wanted to go hunting, Dean didn't know.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Sammy," the twenty-two year old assured him, "Dad can't make you do anything."

The teen nodded tearfully.

Turning his attention back to his father, Dean spoke up, "Fine, Dad. Go find us a hunt. Sam and I will follow and meet you once he's a hundred percent."

John looked shocked and a little hurt that Dean hadn't agreed right away to follow him into battle.

"There's only one car-" John began, the question in his voice as to who was going to take the Impala.

"There's a dealership just down the street," Dean reminded his father, thinking of the large black truck he'd seen as they passed the lot full of new and used cars on the way into town, "Maybe you'll find something there you'll like."

The father looked incensed that his son was telling him to leave the Impala- his Impala- and buy himself a new mode of transportation.

"You're not serious," John asked but Dean didn't even blink.

"I need you to help me with hunts!" the eldest Winchester exclaimed.

"Sam needs my help more than you do, Dad," Dean reply as calmly as he could.

John gaped, open-mouthed at his eldest son. Rarely had Dean ever spoken back to him. The only time they ever came close to a fight was when it had to do with Sam.

Grinding his teeth with anger, the hunter stood and grabbed his duffel bag from where it sat at the end of his bed.

"I guess I'll see you when I see you," he growled, his eyes dark and shiny, his lips pursed.

Dean merely nodded, not giving John the satisfaction of answering.

The twenty-two year old didn't even react when the motel room door slammed shut. Instead, he sighed as Sam leaned his full weight against him.

"Dad's mad," the teen muttered.

"Yeah," Dean replied, "Well, let him be. You're more important than some stupid hunt."

The brothers were quiet for a long moment before the eldest spoke again.

"You know," he began, "Once we catch up to Dad, you don't have to hunt. If Dad tries to make you I'll sock him."

"Thanks Dean," Sam whispered, "For everything."

The young man felt tears prickle his eyes and he wrapped his arms around his brother, hugging him as tightly as he could.

"That's what I'm here for, Sammy. To protect you from everything, even if it's from Dad too."

**Author's Note:**

> Fanfic title comes from an Alice Cooper song.


End file.
